Smallville 1989 COMPLETE
by Lexwing
Summary: An alternate account of what happened after the meteor shower
1. Default Chapter

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Smallville, 1989, pt.1 (FanFic Challenge)

Rating: PG-13 for some mild language and the aftermath of destruction

Time: immediately after the meteor shower

Disclaimer: all characters of the Superman universe are property of DC Comics, the WB, et al.  The rest of this work is fiction.  Other parts will be posted if there is enough interest.

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Smallville, Kansas, October 27, 1989.

     "Sam!  Lunch is on the table and it's getting cold!"

     Sam McIntyre straightened up and groaned.  Where was it written that the older you got the more aches and pains came with it?  He rubbed his stiff back, but smiled in satisfaction at the neat stack of pumpkins and squashes he'd made in the corner of the barn.  His wife, Josie, had managed to produce another bumper crop, guaranteed to keep all their friends in pumpkin pies and zucchini bread for weeks to come.

   "Sam?"  Josie poked her head in around the barn door.  "Sam, did you hear me?"

   "I'm not deaf, woman," he growled, but smiled at her.  She was a bit rounder than she'd been when he's married her, and her hair was gray, but she was still his Josie.  The same woman he'd met at a Metropolis USO dance and who'd insisted they settle in her hometown when he'd gotten back from Korea.

     "I know how much you like cold soup, Sam," she teased.  "Thank you for getting the pumpkins squared away.  Did you keep back the two I'm saving for Martha Kent? She wants to try her hand at making her Thanksgiving pies from scratch this year."

   "Yes, ma'am."  He put his arm around his wife and gave her a squeeze.  "How's the football game going?  I know you were listening to it on that little transistor radio you have in the kitchen."

   Josie beamed.  "We won."

   "Was there ever any doubt?"

   "Not really.  Smallville High hasn't lost a homecoming game since, goodness, my day."

   Arm in arm the couple stepped out into the yard.  It was a beautiful Kansas autumn day, with a sky so blue it hurt to look at it.  There was a bite to the air, though, even with the sun shining.  A reminder that winter would not be far behind.

   "I want to get those planting beds covered this afternoon," Sam mused aloud.  "I'm guessing there'll be frost in a few days."  The McIntyre home, though no longer a working farm, boasted one of the biggest gardens in the area.  Josie was renown far and wide for her green thumb and never failed to take a blue ribbon in the state fair.  This year it had been her turnips and carrots, the year before, pumpkins.  

    "No rush, dear," she squeezed his middle.  

    "Just keeping busy," he sighed.

   "I know, Sam.  I know it's been hard to adjust to being retired."

   "It's just hard, when you've been a doctor as long as I was, to hang up your shingle."  Dr. McIntyre had retired in August, just after his sixty-fifth birthday.  The town had given him a retirement party in the Grange Hall.  

   "Of course it is."  Josie stopped and looked up at him.  "But think, Sam, of all the free time we have now.  You're not tied to your office, no more midnight calls.  I have you all to myself."  She stood on tiptoes to kiss him.

   "Hmm.  Well, I guess it was time," he conceded.  "They've got the new hospital now, quite a step up from the old clinic.  Bill Curtis showed me around.  All the fancy new equipment—didn't recognize half of it," Sam chuckled.  "And six doctors on staff, Josie!  Never thought I'd see the day.  Smallville's growing by leaps and bounds."

   "It'll grow some more if Joe Ross really does sell the plant to this Luthor fellow," his wife countered.  "They say everything with him is bigger and better."

   "I suppose."  He paused on the porch steps.  "And lord knows we could use more jobs if crop prices keep falling.  Still, I will kind of miss the way things were."

    Josie opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the strangest noise Sam had ever heard.  A high-pitched whistling, almost like…

    "Sam, look!"  Josie pointed across the road, where a ball of fire streaked across the sky.  They watched, open-mouthed, as it disappeared into a cornfield.  For a split second there was no sound, and then a deafening boom echoed across the open space.  The earth shook and both of them nearly fell off the steps.

   "What in God's name…?"

    "There's another one!"  Another fiery ball plummeted to earth, seemingly out of nowhere.  Even from this distance Sam could hear the sonic boom as it impacted a mile away.  A plume of purple-black smoke spiraled up into the blue sky from the site.

   Sam seized his wife's arm and hustled her into the house.  He knew it was foolish, but he felt he had to do something to protect Josie.  In the army they had taught him never to be caught in the open during a bombing raid.  But how did you protect someone from fire falling from the sky?   

    Josie clung to him.  "Sam?  What are they?"

   He hugged her closer.  "I don't know."

p

     "He must have parents, Martha."  Limping slightly, Jonathan Kent followed the black burn marks made by the impact of whatever it was that had fallen from the sky.  His wife, Martha, followed behind him, holding the little boy they'd found.

    Jonathan just didn't understand what was happening.  Something had just narrowly missed their truck, impacting in a nearby field.  He'd slammed on the brakes so hard the truck had rolled.  Fortunately, they'd both had their seatbelts on and, except for scratches and bruises, they were both all right.  His truck was probably a total loss, but he knew when to count his blessings.  

     And there had been this little boy, naked as the day he was born, smiling as if he recognized them.  Jonathan had never seen the child before, but he guessed he could belong to one of the new families moving into town.  But then what was he doing out…

    He stopped in his tracks, as did Martha behind him.

   An object lay in the crater just in front of them.  It looked like it was made of metal, although now scorched black in places.  With its pointed nose and wings it looked almost…well, Jonathan knew it was crazy but it looked almost like a little ship.  A little _space_ ship…

     "Whoever they are, they're definitely not from Kansas." Martha stood next to him, staring at the strange object.  Jonathan opened his mouth to answer, but no words would come out.  He could only look at the black-haired toddler wrapped snugly in his jacket in Martha's arms.  Instead he peered up into the smoke-streaked sky, as if he'd somehow find an answer up there.  

   "Jonathan?"  Martha said tentatively.  "It's cold out here; I think we should take him home, at least for now."

    Jonathan sighed heavily.  He knew Martha was right.

   "Looks like we'll have to walk, but it can't be more than a quarter mile or so home."

   He helped his wife climb out of the crater, leaving behind the strange object.  From the overturned truck he grabbed his keys, and, on a whim, gathered up the scattered tulips they'd bought that afternoon.  As they started down the road he couldn't help but notice how tightly Martha carried the mysterious child.  

     He sighed inwardly.  After the last miscarriage Martha had taken the news that they'd probably never have a biological child so calmly.  More calmly than he had, to tell the truth.  But he knew it preyed on her mind.  The last thing she needed was to become attached to a little boy they couldn't keep.  Especially a little boy who had entered their lives from, well, wherever he came from. 

     After they'd trudged in silence for a while, he paused to look at her.  "He must be getting heavy, Martha.  Let me carry him."

    Martha looked for a moment like she might object, but changed her mind and handed the little boy to him.  As she did so he smoothed her hair away from her sooty face.   

     She made a face.  "Jonathan, don't.  I must be a sight."

    "You sure are.  You look beautiful," he said truthfully.  He settled the child in the crook of his arm the way he's seen Martha do.  The boy was surprisingly solid for something so small.   "He's heavier than he looks."

    "I don't mind," Martha smiled.

   Jonathan's smile faded.  Clearly he and his wife would have to have a long talk when they got home.  

    The child remained silent as they walked, although he smiled up at Jonathan and periodically glanced over at Martha as if reassuring himself she was still there.  Not knowing anything about kids Jonathan wondered how old he was.  The boy looked to be about the same size as little Lana Lang, which would make him almost three.  But Lana spoke in full sentences.  This child didn't say a word.  But then maybe the boy was in some kind of shock, and he'd start chattering away soon enough.  Jonathan really didn't know.   Finally the roof of the Kent barn appeared over the horizon, and he grinned.  "Almost home."

    "Everything looks ok," Martha said with a frown.  "We'll have to check the fields, though."

   Jonathan was tempted to laugh.  Martha had spent her whole life in the city until she'd married him, but she'd taken to farm life like a duck to water.

   "First thing's first.  Let's get inside and get cleaned up."  He tucked the boy under his arm as they ascended the porch steps, which the child seemed to enjoy.  The interior of the farmhouse was snug and cool, just as it had been when they'd left.

   Martha hurriedly circled the first floor of her home.  

   "A few pictures are down, but that seems to be all of the damage."  She smiled at the little boy.  "Shall we put you down?"  She took the boy in her arms again and carried him over to the couch, where she gently set him down.

   The child looked around him with bright eyes, and then settled down to study his fingers with rapt attention.

   "Jonathan, would you get me a washcloth?  And maybe you could find something he could wear?"  

     "I think I've still got that green sweatshirt that shrunk in the wash."  He paused on his way upstairs.  "Martha?"

    His wife was kneeling down in front of the boy, smoothing his hair away from his face.  "Yes?"

   "Don't…don't get too attached.  To him.  We still need to find out where he came from, so he can go back."

   Martha leveled her gaze at him.  "I think we both know where he came from, Jonathan.  But neither of us wants to admit it."

p

     "Lord almighty."  Joe Ross looked out over what had, until a few minutes ago, been his corn crop.  When the meteor had hit he and his son, Mark, had taken cover behind their truck, as had Lionel Luthor's pilot.  Luthor himself had stood his ground.  Luckily the impact had been far enough away that no one had gotten hurt.  At least that's what he'd thought, until Luthor had rushed out into the flattened cornfield in search of his son.

   "Mark, see if any of the phone lines are still up. I think we might need some help out here."

   "Sure, pop."  His son sprinted back inside, nearly colliding with employees who, having heard and felt the impact, were rushing outside to see what was happening.

   Joe hurried out after Mr. Luthor, unable to keep pace with the younger man.  He hadn't understood why the man had brought his boy out here in the first place; there was nothing for the sour-faced child to do.  No boy wanted to stand around while adults signed paperwork.  No wonder he'd gone off to play in the field…

   "Lex?  Lex!"  Luthor was shouting, his voice echoing around the vacant space.  Joe realized it was unnaturally quiet because most of the animals and birds that had occupied the cornfield had been killed in the impact, and the flattened corn could no longer rustle in the wind.  Of course, the ruined corn was technically not his problem, since five minutes ago the creamed corn factory had become Mr. Luthor's property.  But Joe had children and grandchildren of his own.  He couldn't imagine what Luthor must be feeling right now.

   Up ahead he saw Luthor dig around in a pile of fallen corn, and then step back, an expression of horror on his face.  Ross steadied himself for what he might find.

   "Mr. Luthor?  What is it?"

   The man didn't respond.  He just stood there like a man transfixed.  Joe brushed past him.

   Mr. Luthor's son was curled on his right side, his pale hands in fists.  Joe breathed a sigh of relief to see the child's eyes were open.  The boy moaned faintly, and shivered violently.  His fancy school clothes were covered with dirt.  The flaming red hair, the first thing Ross had noticed about the boy, lay about him in tufts.  Only a few strands clung to his scalp.

   Joe didn't take the time to ponder what had happened to the child.  He pulled off his coat and wrapped the boy in it.

   "Mr. Luthor?  Your boy's in shock.  We need to get him into town."

   Finally Luthor raised his eyes to Joe's.  He nodded slightly.

   Fortunately the child was thin and small for his age; Joe had no trouble picking him up in his arms.  Strangely Luthor didn't rush forward to take the child from him, so Ross carried him as he hurried out of the field with the other man on his heels.  Mark and Luthor's pilot met them halfway.

   "Phone lines are down, Dad, even 911.  The town must have been hit, too."  Staring at the bald child, Mark looked from his father to Mr. Luthor and back again.  "What happened to him?"

   "Don't know, but he needs a doctor."  Joe could feel the boy shuddering in his arms, and the child's pale forehead was drenched in sweat.  His eyes were open but unseeing.

   "The rotors are bent, Mr. Luthor," the pilot said, gesturing to his chopper.  "They must have been hit with debris.  There's no way we can take off."

   "We'll take my truck," Mark offered.  

   "Good thinking." Joe nodded at his oldest son and then turned to face his former workforce.  They were huddled around the factory doors, still in white coveralls and hairnets.  

     "All of you go home, check on your families.  We're closing for the day," he hollered, forgetting for a moment that he was no longer their boss.  Everyone else had apparently forgotten, too, because they started sprinting for the parking lot.  

     As carefully as he could Ross put the boy in his father's arms.  This whole time Luthor hadn't uttered a word.  He now stood there looking at his child as if he didn't recognize him, almost as if he was tempted to hand him back.  It was absolutely unnatural.

   "We'll get you and your boy to Smallville General, Mr. Luthor," Joe promised anyway.  "Just keep him warm until we get there, all right?"

   Luthor just looked at him vacantly, but finally nodded.

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	2. ch2

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     "Hello?  Jonathan?  Martha?  Are you here?"  

   Martha and Jonathan glanced at each other, then out the window into the front yard where a blue pickup had just swung into the driveway.  A woman had already jumped out of the truck and was on her way to the door, with a man hard on her heels. 

   "It's Doc McIntyre and his wife."  Jonathan glanced nervously at the little boy.  Now clad in Jonathan's old sweatshirt, the boy was cheerfully feeding himself dry cereal from the box Martha had given him.  

   Martha had cleaned him up as best she could without actually giving him a bath.  There hadn't been a scratch on the child.  How a child could be found in the middle of a meteor crater completely unscathed…Jonathan tried hard not to think of possible explanations.  Instead he shrugged slightly.

   "We were going to have to tell people about him sooner or later," he told his wife, opening the door to let their visitors in.

    Dr. McIntyre had been a fixture in Smallville as long as Jonathan could remember; had delivered him, in fact.  Before Jonathan's father, Hyrum, had passed away the two men had often wiled away Saturday afternoons with card games and fishing trips.

   "Doc?  Josie?  You two all right?"

   Josie embraced him.  "We are, but we're checking on all the neighbors.  Did you see them?  Sam thinks they were meteors."

   "What else could they have been?  Unless World War III just started," her husband added, following his wife into the kitchen.  Both stopped short at the sight of the little boy Martha now held in her arms.  Jonathan wondered if Martha had any idea how protective she looked, hugging the child like that.

   "Who is this?"  Josie smiled at the little boy, coming close enough to chuck him under the chin.  The boy smiled at the attention, and then buried his face in Martha's shoulder.

   "Well…"  Martha looked at Jonathan helplessly.

   "We're not sure," Jonathan admitted.  "A meteor totaled our truck, and we had to walk home.  We found him by the side of the road."

   It wasn't a lie.  Not really.

    "All by himself?"  Josie was clearly horrified.  "The poor little thing!  In all the confusion he must have wandered away from his folks."

   "Do you recognize him, Sam?"  Jonathan wasn't sure whether he was disappointed or relieved when the older man shook his head.  

   "Never seen him before, and I know most folks out this way.  But he's in good hands until you find his parents."  The doctor looked at Jonathan somberly.  "Jonathan, I came to ask you to go with me into town.  I tried radioing in to find out what's going on but didn't get any answer.  We can see smoke from our place, though."

   "Oh, no," Martha sighed.  "I hope everyone's all right.  We were just there this morning."

   "As soon as it looked like the last one had come down I told Sam, 'You go get your old medical bag.  If people are hurt they'll need all the help they can get,'" Josie explained.  "And I'm sure another set of hands would be a blessing," she added, with a pointed look at Jonathan.

   Normally, Jonathan wouldn't have hesitated, but under the circumstances…

   Martha made up his mind for him.  "Of course Jonathan will go with you, Sam."  She waved away her husband's protest.  "We'll be just fine here until you get back."  

    "I thought maybe we could take Hyrum's old truck, Jonathan.  Josie's going to take mine and see if she can round up the other Red Cross volunteers.  Though, lordy, we haven't needed the Red Cross since the tornado of '71."

   "You don't think it's that bad, do you?"  Jonathan felt a cold ball of anxiety settle in his stomach.  Five generations of Kents had lived and died in Smallville.  He couldn't imagine anything happening to the town.

   "The way those things came down anything's possible," the doctor advised.  He eyed the little boy.  "Want me to take a quick look at him?"

   "No!"  Both Jonathan and Martha blurted out at the same time.  The doctor and his wife looked at them with odd expressions.

   "We already did.  Not a scratch," Martha reported truthfully.

   "Don't worry, sweetie," Mrs. McIntrye cooed to the child.  "You stay here with Martha."  The older woman's eyes brightened.  "Y'know, I think I still have some of Toby's old things in the attic at home.  He'll need more than an old sweatshirt to run around in.  When I get back I'll have a look."

     Jonathan kissed his wife on the cheek.  "You sure?"  He wasn't sure what he meant, but she smiled at him nonetheless.

   "Of course."

   The boy reached up and patted the side of his face, as if agreeing with Martha.  They stood together on the porch as Jonathan backed his father's old Ford out of the barn and Dr. McIntyre hopped into the passenger seat with an old black doctor's bag tucked under his arm.

   "They'll be just fine, Jonathan," the doc advised.  "Martha's a capable woman."

   "Believe me, I know that."   As he waved goodbye, though, Jonathan couldn't help but worry.  He still wasn't sure what they had gotten themselves into by bringing this strange child home.

p

     Downtown Smallville was still smoldering when Dr. McIntyre and Jonathan pulled up to the top of Main Street.  Jonathan stopped the truck, unable to go any further, and too awed by what he saw to speak.

   Downtown lay in ruins.  The tower of the old Smallville Savings and Loan was now a pile of debris on the sidewalk.  Several overturned cars burned in the middle of the street.  The glass had blown out of most of the storefronts, and people wandered dazedly.  Even from their location they could hear crying, weeping.  One group was trying to open the hydrant, no doubt to put out the fires.  Where was the fire department?  Other men were frantically pulling bricks away from the front of Hanson's Grocery.  Sickened, Jonathan wondered if someone was pinned under the collapsed storefront.  Above it all a tattered "Go Crows" banner still fluttered in the air, a reminder of what had been only that morning, but was now gone.

   "It looks like a war zone," Jonathan whispered.

   "That it does," the doctor said grimly.  "Let's go."

   Jonathan obediently followed his old friend.  The two men picked their way up the street, pausing every two or three feet to check on people.  A lot of people were cut and bruised, as he and Martha had been.  Most could only look at them dazedly as Dr. McIntyre hastily taped them up.

   "Sam!  Jonathan!  Over here!"

   Across the street, Jonathan could see Ed Fordman waving at them frantically.

   Sam looked up from the woman whose arm he was bandaging.  "Go—see what you can do.  I'll be right there."

   Ed Fordman was a strong, stocky man, owner of Fordman's Sporting Goods next to the grocery.  "Jonathan, thank god.  Give us a hand.  Hanson's under here.  Damn fool came out when the first one came down."

   Knowing full well the futility of their actions, Jonathan pitched in and started tossing away bricks as fast as he could.  He'd read somewhere that places like California that had earthquakes never built with brick, because it collapsed so easily.  Smallville had always prided itself on its turn-of-the-century buildings, like the one that had housed Hanson's business.  But could any building material stand up to a meteor?  Judging from what he'd seen so far, he didn't think so.

   "Where are the police?  The fire department?"  Jonathan grunted.

   "Police are trying to set up a perimeter around downtown," the other man explained hastily.  "Some of the firemen are over in the Talon, setting up a triage center.  There are fires all over the area, though, so they haven't got much manpower."

   "People will come," Jim Dillon added.  "For god's sake, this isn't the moon."

   Doc McIntyre hurried across the street, but it was already too late for Tom Hanson.  He checked the motionless form they uncovered anyway.

      "Nothing we could have done," the doctor sighed.  He looked at the devastation around him.  "Never thought I'd live to see Smallville like this."

   "Me neither."  Ed rubbed his face.  "You should have seen it.  Right in the middle of homecoming, too.  Blew the bank building to smithereens."  

   Jonathan wondered how Fordman could be so blasé, but then remembered the man had been in Vietnam.  He'd probably seen scenes like this before.  Jonathan hadn't, however, and he knew he'd still be seeing this for years to come.

     "You get on over to the Talon, Doc; they'll be needing doctors," Fordman advised.

   "Has anyone radioed the Metropolis police?  Or their rescue services?"  Jonathan wondered allowed as the crossed the street.

   "I'm sure they're on their way," Sam suggested.  "They must have seen the meteor shower on radar.  But unless they're allowed to fly in it could take hours."

   The movie theater was still redolent of popcorn and Milk Duds, but as they came through the shattered doors the two men found the lobby crowded with wounded and frightened people.  Rows of blankets had been laid out for the injured.

   "Doc?"  Tony Robinson, one of the volunteer fire fighters, made his way over to them.  "Can you take a look at Mrs. Harris?  She's bleeding from the ears and I don't know what to do."

   "It's from the concussive blasts," the doctor explained.  "Saw it in the war.  We'll be seeing more of it before the day's done," he added grimly.

   Jonathan stayed put, looking around him.  Finally he spotted Nell Potter sitting against the wall, a huddled Lana in her lap.

   "Nell?"

   "Oh, Jonathan!"  Nell burst into tears as soon as she saw him.  He put his arms around her awkwardly.  "What's happening?"

   "We think it was a meteor shower," he explained hastily.  He glanced down; Lana was peering up at him with big, tear-stained green eyes.   "Is she all right?"

   "No."  Nell started to sob.  "Oh, Jonathan!  Laura and Lewis are gone!"

   For a moment he couldn't process what she was saying.  "Gone?  Gone where?"

   Nell ran the sleeve of her expensive blouse across her eyes.  "Gone, Jonathan.  They were on the street when the first one hit.  It was right in front of us."

   "My God."  Looking down at the Lang's little girl, Jonathan stomach roiled.  In what kind of a world would a child have to see something like that?

     "What are we going to do?"  Nell asked numbly, mascara trickling down her cheeks.  "Laura was my baby sister."

   "I know."  He'd gone to high school with both of them; Lewis had been class president their senior year.  Jonathan laid a hand on Lana's small head.  He desperately wanted to say something, but he didn't know what.  How did you explain death to a three-year-old?

   The child blinked up at him as if, on some level, she really did understand the enormity of what had happened to her.

   "Josie McIntyre's rounding up the Red Cross volunteers," was all he could offer.  "They'll be here soon."  Jonathan knew Josie and Sam had lost their only son, Toby, years before; maybe they would know what to do.

     Feeling more helpless than he ever had before, Jonathan went back to help the doctor.  He knew some basic first aid, and helped bandage up wounds and splint limbs, but it seemed the more people they helped the more arrived.

   "Radio's working again," one of the firemen explained.  "Smallville General is swamped and they're diverting people here."

   "The Interstate is closed to anyone except emergency personnel," an arriving ambulance driver reported.  "We'll bring in all the extra supplies we can spare."

     "What about Medivac?  I've got head injuries and two possible heart attacks that need more treatment than they can get here," Sam complained.

   "They've grounded all flights in or out of Smallville.  The FAA doesn't think it's safe."

   Sam rolled his eyes.  "Bureaucrats.  What, they think there are more meteors on the way?  Do they realize the statistical odds of that?"

   "I'm sure they're doing everything they can, Sam," Jonathan counseled.  "We just need to hang in there."  But as he looked around him at the sea of injured, he understood the doctor's frustration.  People needed bones set, stitches; some were so badly injured that Jonathan wasn't sure anything could be done for them at all, like the woman who had been outside when a meteor had landed nearby.  The resulting flash of light had burned her retinas and blinded her.  Dr. McIntyre bandaged her eyes and gave her some of their precious supply of painkillers, but Jonathan could see him shaking his head.

    Jonathan laid a hand on his friend's arm.  "You're doing everything you can, Sam.  We know that."

   "If we had more doctors, more supplies…"   Sam's lament was interrupted by a loud voice.

   "Doctor?  I need help here!"  A tall man with a ringing, imperious voice stood by the doorway, cradling a child in his arms.  His eyes scanned the room and seemed to instantly focus on McIntyre.  He headed their way.  "I need help," he repeated.

   "Put the boy down over there."  Sam gestured to one of the few remaining empty pallets. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

   "You don't seem to understand.  I need help now," the man repeated.

   Sam stood up, and so did Jonathan.  He had never seen this man before, but everything about him, from his shoes to his black overcoat, screamed money.  More than that, though, clearly this man expected some sort of special treatment.  He shifted the weight of the child in his arms impatiently.

   "Smallville General turned us away," the bearded man complained loudly.  "It's outrageous!"

   "Look, we're doing the best we can, but we don't have enough help," Sam tried to explain.  But the man cut him off.

   "My son needs medical attention," he repeated.

   "So does everyone else here," Jonathan put in.  "You'll just have to wait."

   The newcomer eyed him sharply, from head to toe.  Jonathan had the distinct feeling he'd just been weighed, and found wanting.  And he didn't like that feeling one bit.

   "Who are you?"

   "Jonathan Kent.  Who are you?"

   The man straightened his shoulders.  "Lionel Luthor."

   So this was the famous Lionel Luthor?  Jonathan had expected someone older, someone with more horse sense than to start demanding special privileges during an emergency.  He was about to tell the man so, when the child he held let out a pitiful moan.  Jonathan suddenly felt terrible--this was no time to focus on personal animosity.  

    Apparently Sam McIntyre felt the same way.  "Put your boy down and I'll take a look at him."

   Luthor did as the doctor instructed, and Sam bent over the boy.  He carefully unwrapped the jacket around the child, looking in his unseeing eyes, listening to his thin chest.

   "How long as he been like this?"

   "Almost two hours."  Luthor ran a hand through his brown hair.  "He was out in the Ross' cornfield when it hit."

    Jonathan had thought he couldn't see a more pitiful sight than tiny Lana, but the sight of this child, curled in a fetal position and mostly bald, was even worse.

   Lionel Luthor frowned.  "Do you know what's wrong with him?"

   Sam glanced up at the man.  "What's 'wrong' with him is that he's in shock."

   "But why can't he snap out of it?"

   "You don't snap out of shock, Mr. Luthor.  It takes time."  Sam ran a skilled hand over the boy's scalp.  "No burns, luckily."

   "I want him taken to Metropolis General," Luthor announced.

   Jonathan almost forgot his pledge to ignore the instant dislike he felt for this man.  "Lots of people need to be transported there.  They won't let any helicopters fly."

   "According to whom?"  Luthor eyed him suspiciously.  "Let me talk to them.  I can have my private plane in the air in fifteen minutes."

   "The FAA's grounded everyone, Mr. Luthor, even you," Sam said tiredly.  "But as soon as we have a way I'll make sure your son goes.  Shock is no joke.  If your boy wasn't young and strong it could have already killed him."

   Lionel looked at the boy with an odd expression.  "Lex has never been very strong," he corrected.

     Sam and Jonathan shared a glance.  Clearly Lionel Luthor didn't think much of his son.  But then, under the circumstances, maybe Luthor didn't know what he was saying.

     Dusk had started to fall by the time the first ambulances from Metropolis arrived.  Jonathan nearly wept with relief at the sight, even though they had to carry the more seriously injured out on stretchers because the ambulances couldn't get past all the debris.

   "They've got a crew coming out first thing in the morning to clear the streets," a police officer confided.  "And FEMA will be here, too."

   "Great."  Jonathan's back hurt, as did his legs, but he felt better than he had all day.  Sam supervised the moving of the wounded, and true to his word Luthor's son was among them.

   Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief to see the boy loaded into an ambulance accompanied by his father.  Hopefully that would be the last he'd have to see of the Luthors.

    The Red Cross also arrived, and soon there was hot coffee and soup to pass out.  Josie promised reinforcements were on their way from Metropolis and forced Jonathan and her husband to sit down and rest for a while.

   "Now I understand why I retired," Dr. McIntyre groaned.  "I am definitely too old for this."

    "Me, too," Jonathan grinned slightly.

   "Why don't you go along home, Jonathan?"  The older man frowned.  "Martha must be worried, and you've done everything you can here."

   "I couldn't leave you and Josie to cope on your own."

   "Nonsense—you heard my wife.  The Metropolis Red Cross is sending more help.  You've got folks of your own to look after."

     Jonathan ran a tired hand over his face.  In all the chaos he'd almost forgotten about the little boy.  He hoped Martha had managed with him all right.  "Well, if you're sure, Sam."

   "I am."  The older man nodded.

   "But I'll be back first thing in the morning," Jonathan vowed.

   Outside Jonathan took a deep breath.  The night air was cool and crisp, but it still carried the smell of smoke on it.  In the darkness the damaged buildings loomed like broken teeth.  He thought of the Langs, and the others who'd lost their lives, and shuddered.  No one had come up with an official death toll yet; too many people were still missing.  He was relieved to climb back into the familiar confines of his dad's old truck and head away from town, away from all the misery and death.

   Halfway home, so tired his head kept nodding towards the steering wheel, Jonathan abruptly remembered what the police officer had told him.

   The feds would be arriving the next day.  That was standard procedure in natural disasters, because they needed to evaluate the damage and decide what steps, if any, the government could take to help repair the town.  Jonathan could remember standing in line with his dad to fill out the forms when the tornado of '71 had destroyed their barn.

   But the federal government would be looking at the damage to crops, too.  They would be trampling through fields, across country roads…and maybe finding things that he'd just as soon weren't found.

   Before he could change his mind Jonathan pulled off the road as close to the spot as he could remember.  Even with the flashlight from his tool kit it look him a bit of searching to find the right place.  He finally found the scorched spot on the road and followed it into the field.

   The object was still where they had left it that afternoon.  Jonathan had half hoped the whole thing had been a bad dream, but there it was, reflecting in the glare from his flashlight.   Experimentally Jonathan tugged at one of the wings.  It felt light, lighter than something of its size made of metal should have been.  He could just lift it on his own.

     With some difficulty he half-carried, half-dragged the whatever-it-was to the truck, and loaded it into the flatbed.  Then, with a quick look around to make sure no one had seen him, he left the field.

   At home the house was dark, but a light came on in the kitchen as soon as he pulled up.  He knew Martha would have watered and fed the stock in his absence, which was good—he didn't think he had the strength left to do chores.  But before he went inside he took the thing from the back of the truck.  As he lifted it down something fell off of it, and Jonathan absently stuffed it into his coat pocket.  He lugged it into the barn and tucked it into a corner, behind the tractor.  For good measure he threw some tarps over it.

   Martha was waiting when he came out of the barn.  She watched silently while he locked he barn doors, something he had never done in his life.   

   "I don't want anyone to find it, Martha, at least not yet," he told his wife.  "How would we explain it?"

   "We couldn't," Martha agreed.  She had her arms wrapped around herself in the cold.

   "Is he all right?"

   "He's fine.  I gave him some leftover chicken and some rice for dinner and then he went right to sleep.  He's in our bed."

   Jonathan put his arms around his wife, resting his chin against the top of her head.

   "I don't know what we should do, Martha."

   Martha sighed and snuggled against his flannel shirt.  "I don't either.  But we'll figure something out.  I promise."

/body

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	3. ch3

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 body

    Martha stood at the kitchen window, watching her husband as he crossed the yard to the barn.  She couldn't help but notice he looked around before he unlocked it and went inside.

   The sun was just rising.  The smoke that still hung in the air from the meteor shower gave the day a gloomy, overcast appearance.  Martha still couldn't quite process everything that had happened.  Here she was, cooking eggs and brewing coffee just like she'd done every morning for the last ten years, and yet the world around them was forever changed.

   Jonathan had told her what had happened to the town, to their friends.  She couldn't believe that, either.  At the time she'd been so overwhelmed she hadn't thought about how close she and Jonathan had come to death.  If Jonathan hadn't slammed on the brakes when he had they might have been incinerated, like the Langs, or crushed by the impact.  

   And yet in the middle of all that a child had arrived.  Lana Lang, dressed in her fairy costume, had offered to grant her a wish.  Martha had gotten her wish, but Lana and Nell had paid dearly.  There just didn't seem to be any sense to it at all.

   She had just set the platter of scrambled eggs on the table when a pair of little feet appeared at the top of the stairs.  The little boy was peering down at her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his small fists.

   "Good morning," Martha smiled.  "Are you hungry?  Would you like some breakfast?  You'll have to come downstairs if you do."

   Alone in the house with him, all yesterday evening Martha had talked to the child.  Even though he hadn't yet made a sound she kept hoping that eventually he'd respond to her voice.  He seemed content enough to be here, but she couldn't quite fathom what was going on behind his green eyes.

   He hopped down the stairs and came to stand next to the table.  Looking around, he frowned and pointed to the window.

   "Yes, Jonathan's outside.  He's doing chores.  Now," she hoisted the child into one of the kitchen chairs, "let's get you some breakfast.  My mother always made me eat oatmeal, but we're out so I guess eggs and bacon will have to do."  

   Martha chuckled as she remembered her first few weeks on the farm.  Breakfast for her and her friends in college had been black coffee and dry toast; maybe half a grapefruit, if they wanted to splurge.  She had been horrified to see the amount of food Jonathan and Hyrum expected to be on the breakfast table every morning: eggs, ham, pancakes, you name it, they ate it.  After her first morning helping her new husband bale hay, though, Martha had understood.  She'd nearly passed out from hunger and Jonathan had sent her inside to eat before he'd let her help him again.  

     "Just another life lesson you city girls need to learn," her father-in-law had laughed.  "Eat when you're hungry and stop when you're full."

     Martha dished up some scrambled eggs onto a plate for her guest, and handed him a spoon.  As she did so she held it up, enunciating carefully.  "Spoon."

   The child looked at her, puzzled, but had no problem scooping the food into his hungry little mouth.

   "Wow," Jonathan said as he came in the back door.  "That kid sure can eat."

   The little boy beamed at him around a mouthful of food.

    Jonathan washed up at the sink.  "Smells great, Martha.  I'm starved."

   "You didn't have any dinner last night," she reminded him.  After hiding the strange object in the barn Jonathan had tumbled right into their bed without even taking off his boots.  In moments he'd been snoring away, with the little boy sound asleep beside him.  They had made such a perfect sight together Martha had stayed up for a long time just watching the two of them sleep.  But she wasn't about to tell Jonathan that.  She knew how worried he was about where the child might have come from, and who might be looking for him.

   Jonathan and Martha sat down at the table, and Martha gave the boy a second helping of eggs.  He frowned, though, when she gave him a glass of juice.

   "You drink that," she instructed.  "Orange juice is good for growing little boys."  Martha knew she sounded like a TV commercial, but she couldn't help herself.

   Jonathan ate his breakfast in silence.  The local paper, the _Ledger_, sat untouched at his elbow—they had rushed a special edition about the meteors, but clearly Jonathan had had his fill of bad news the day before.

   "I've gathered up our extra blankets and Hyrum's old coats—I thought you could take them into town with you.  I'm sure people will be needing them."

   "Sure.  Pop would be glad his things are going to good use."  Jonathan's father had passed away almost three years ago, but his son still couldn't bring himself to part with his possessions.  Hyrum's old room, across the hall from their own, remained as it had at his death.

   Jonathan refilled his coffee cup, but in reaching over for the milk he knocked his teaspoon off the table.  "Damn."

   "Jonathan!"  Martha scolded.  She nodded in the direction of the child, who was watching everything Jonathan did with interest.

   Her husband blushed a little.  "Sorry.  Martha, would you grab me a clean spoon, please?"

  As Martha fished another one out of the cutlery drawer she saw that the little boy had paused in his eating.  He held up his own spoon in a chubby fist.

   "Spoon," he announced cheerfully.

   "Well, I'll be…darned."  Jonathan looked over at his wife.  "Did he say anything to you last night?"

   "No."  Martha shook her head.  "I kept trying, but it's almost like he doesn't understand English."

   The boy held up the utensil to Martha, and then to Jonathan.  "Spoon," he repeated.

   "That's right."  Unable to resist Martha kissed the top of his head.  "That's a spoon.  See, you learned a new word."

   Clearly pleased with himself, the boy started mashing the food on his plate with the latest object of his curiosity.  "Spoon, spoon, spoon," he crooned softly to himself.

   Jonathan watched the boy with amusement.  "Well, he picks things up fast, I'll give him that."

   "He's a bright little thing," Martha agreed.  "When he didn't see you in the kitchen this morning he pointed to the window, like he knew you must be outside."

   Leaving his breakfast dishes in the sink, Jonathan patted the boy on the head.  "I'd better get those donations loaded and head back into town.  See what the government is going to do to help folks."

   The little boy followed him back and forth as Jonathan moved bags out on to the porch.  The child probably would have followed him out to the truck, but Jonathan stopped him.  He pointed at the child's bare feet, then at his own boots.

   "It's too cold for you to be running around out here barefoot.  Go back inside with Martha where it's warm."

   The child stuck his bottom lip out in a pout.

   "I mean it.  Go along now."

   Something in the tone of his voice clearly convinced the boy Jonathan meant business.  The child settled for standing just inside the screen door and watching.  But when Jonathan waved goodbye and jumped in the truck the boy let out an indignant howl.

   The sound, so child-like and yet so unexpected, caused Martha to drop the dish she was washing back into the sudsy water and rush over to the boy.  

   "What's the matter?"

   Pointing to where her husband's truck was disappearing down the road, the boy sniffled loudly.

   "Oh, it's all right," Martha said gently, gathering the child in her arms.  "He's just going into town.  He'll be back for supper, I promise."

   Sniffling, the boy continued to pout.  

   "Cross my heart," Martha laughed, amused by how attached the little boy already was to Jonathan.  "C'mon, let's find something else for you to do."  She took his hand in hers and led him over to the television.

   "Maybe we can watch some TV.  I always liked Sesame Street."

   Flipping through the stations, however, Martha realized the only thing on was news coverage of the meteors.  Reporters must have started arriving as soon as the Interstate was reopened, because there were cameras everywhere: downtown, at Smallville General, at a press conference in what looked like the old Grange Hall.

   "It's on every channel," Martha murmured to herself, watching in horrified fascination as scene after scene of devastation scrolled by.  When she realized the little boy, hugging her leg, was watching, too, she abruptly turned it off.

   "Nothing good on."  She tried to smile.  "I know—as soon as I finish the dishes I'll take you out to see the animals.  You'll like that."

   She gave him a magazine to look at while she hastily washed the breakfast dishes.  He contentedly paged through it with a solemn expression on his face, periodically stopping to hold up a picture for Martha to see.

   Martha still didn't have any clothes for the little guy, but she found a pair of Jonathan's wool hunting socks that covered the child's bare feet and legs.  She also put her denim jacket over his sweatshirt.  He looked ridiculous but at least he'd be warm.

   Balancing him on her hip she carried him across the yard and past the barn.  As they walked Martha explained everything they were seeing.  "That's the barn—that's where Jonathan keeps all his tools and our tractor.  This is my garden; I grow vegetables, but of course it's too late in the year now.  The trees you see out there is our orchard—apple trees, mostly, but a few peach, too."  She set him down by the chicken coop so he could peer through the wire mesh at the scratching, cackling birds.

   "These are our chickens.  They made the eggs you had for breakfast.  Chickens say 'cluck-cluck.'  Can you hear them?"

   The child grinned widely, and nodded.  He watched the chickens contentedly for a long while, while Martha watched him.  When he seemed to lose interest she picked him up again and walked further back along their property line.

   "Those are cows out there.  Cows say 'moo.'"  

    The boy struggled a bit to get down, but Martha wouldn't let him.

   "Oh, no, cows are big and strong and they don't like little boys they don't know.  We'll just have to watch them from here.  See the little baby?"  She pointed to the calf that had been born last spring.  "Her name is Spot."

   One of the milk cows approached the fence and lowed.  Martha laughed.  "Oh, no, Jonathan gave you guys your breakfast.  I don't have anything else for you to eat."

   "Mooo," the little boy echoed.  He and Martha both laughed, and Martha gave him a squeeze.

   The child glanced up at the gray sky, where above them a flock of birds flew high and fast.  He pointed, and looked at Martha with a puzzled expression.

   "Those are ducks, sweetheart.  They're going south for the winter, because soon it will be too cold for them here."  She squeezed his little fingers.  "Shall I tell you a story about ducks?"

   He smiled.

   "When I was a little girl my cousin gave me some duck eggs he'd found in the park not far from our house.  He was trying to be nice, but my dad said birds wouldn't take eggs back after people had handled them.  So Dad got me an incubator and said I should try to hatch them if I could.  Even though we lived in the city I made them a nice warm spot in the garage, and every day I'd rush home from school to see if the eggs had hatched.  And you know what?"

   The little boy blinked up at her.

   "One day they did.  Five little fluffy yellow ducklings, with tiny little wings and tiny little beaks.  My dad called the animal shelter and a man came out to show me how to feed them with an eyedropper until they got big and strong.  And when they were big enough and strong enough to live on their own my dad and I let all the baby ducks go in a big pond outside of town.  He said I'd been a real good mother for them, as good as any mother duck.  I've never forgotten that; it's one of the few really happy memories I have from before I met Jonathan."  She rested her forehead against the strange child's.  "I knew then I wanted to be a mother, but I was starting to think I never would be." 

   Martha held the child tightly.  "I'm so glad you came," she whispered in his ear.

p

     Lionel Luthor paced up and down in the hallway outside his son's room.  He was still absolutely livid over the treatment—or lack thereof—he'd received in Smallville.  But just like that quack in Smallville, the doctors in Metropolis said there wasn't much that could be done for Alexander.  Just keep him warm and comfortable, they said.

   Warm and comfortable.  For what Lionel paid his doctors you'd think they could come up with a better solution than that.  

   The elevator at the end of the hall opened, and two orderlies wheeled out a gurney containing his son's still form. His wife walked beside it, holding Lex's hand in her own. Lionel had insisted the doctors run every test they could to see if whatever damage Lex had suffered would be permanent.

   Dr. Samsara, the brain specialist Lionel had had flown down from Central City, smiled at him.  "Good news, Mr. Luthor.  The CAT scan shows no abnormalities.  There's no swelling, no hemorrhage."

   The two men stepped out of the way so the gurney could be wheeled into the private room.  The pediatric ward was actually two floors down, by Lionel wasn't about to expose his son to prying eyes, especially those of other children.  He looked away as the orderlies lifted Lex's limp form back into bed, carefully not to tangle the IV lines in his arms.

  "Then why won't he wake up?"  Lionel nodded to where his wife sat by the bed, patting her son's hand absently.  "He should at least respond to his mother."

   Lex had always been much closer to Lillian than to him, which Lionel recognized was partially his own fault.  Lionel had been away on business for most of Lex's early childhood, and hadn't noticed his wife was spoiling the child rotten until it was almost too late.  Lillian had bowed to Lionel's insistence that she allow him to take a firmer hand with the boy, and Lionel had hoped that his advice and training were starting to pay off.  And now this.

   "I would suggest that it's probably more psychological than physical, Mr. Luthor."  At his patron's withering look the doctor corrected himself hastily.  "Of course the blood tests do indicate a huge jump in his white cell count.  That suggests he may be fighting off some kind of massive systemic infection.  We'll know more when Dr. Carter has the rest of the tests analyzed."

   "And his hair?  Will it grow back?"  The last few wisps of Lex' red hair had fallen out overnight.  The child was now as bald as he had been in infancy.

   Samsara frowned.  "It's impossible to say at this point, Mr. Luthor."    

   "Impossible to say," Lionel repeated to himself.  When the doctor and orderlies left he went into the room.

   The machines all indicated his son's vital signs were normal, but Lex no longer looked like a nine-year-old boy.  Lying helpless in bed, his shorn scalp as white as the pillow, he looked like an old man.

   Lillian looked up at her husband with eyes full of tears.

   "Did the doctor say when he'll wake up?"

   "No."

   Lillian looked away, but Lionel could see her lips tighten, a sure sign of anger.

   "Don't start again, Lily."

   She looked back at him hastily.  "Don't tell me what to do, Lionel."

   Lionel sighed.  His wife was a beautiful women, but she could be extremely petulant sometimes.  And she had a temper to match her red hair, the red hair that she had passed on to their son.

   "Why weren't you watching him, Lionel? You know how Alexander gets into trouble if he's not watched."

   "Might I remind you, Lily, it was your idea for me to take him to Smallville in the first place.  I couldn't have known this would happen," Lionel said defensively.

   Lex had been what some of the gossips called a "honeymoon baby," born barely eleven months after their wedding.  Lionel had hoped for a least two sons, but Lily had never been strong and another child seemed unlikely at this point.  Alexander was his heir—what would happen if he didn't survive?  What would happen if he did?  The child was willful, spoiled, sickly, and now possibly permanently disfigured.  

    Lionel rubbed his eyes.  "At least we got the sales contract with the Ross' signed."

   "How can you think of business at a time like this?" Lily scolded.

   Lionel shook his head.  Lily came from old money; her father had never worked a day in his life.  She didn't understand what it took to maintain LuthorCorp.  He'd hoped to make his son understand, but now…

   "Without LuthorCorp we have nothing, Lily," he corrected.  "Lex will have nothing." 

    Lionel couldn't stand being in this room any longer, with a resentful wife and a sick child.  He needed to return to the world he understood.

   "I'm going in to my office. Call me if his condition changes."

   His wife looked at him, but said nothing.  There was nothing she could say.

  /body

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	4. ch4

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     Main Street had already been cleared by the time Jonathan got to town, but he wasn't surprised to see it barricaded at both ends.  People were busy nailing plywood up over broken windows, and some of the heartier souls swept up broken glass.  Jonathan almost smiled—it was just like the town to pitch in and get to work as soon as they could.

   He parked a few blocks away by the elementary school, which had escaped any damage, and walked towards the Talon with Martha's donations.  Half a dozen news crews stood out front, and Jonathan felt a shiver of unease run down his spine.  He was glad he had recovered the mysterious object when he'd had the chance.

   A thin blond woman Jonathan thought he recognized from one of the Metropolis stations spoke into a microphone.

   "We do not yet have an official death toll, but sources say…"

   A few feet away a handsome man in a suit that probably cost more than Jonathan's last mortgage payment gave his own speech to another camera.

   "Scientists at Metropolis University's world-renown astrophysics laboratory estimate the odds of a meteor strike such as yesterday's to be approximately a million to one…"

   Jonathan snorted, which earned him a dirty look from one of the cameramen.

   Vultures.  They must have started arriving before dawn.  As if it mattered now what the odds of yesterday's events had been.  It had happened, hadn't it?

     He went into the Talon to find yet another camera crew at work and squeezed past them.  He found Dr. McIntyre sitting next to a folding table, drinking coffee with a disgusted expression on his face.

   "Mornin,' Jonathan.  Hope you got some sleep when you could."

   "I did; not much, but it helped.  Did you get home last night?"

   "Naw, Josie and I bunked down here with some of the other families.  Heat still works, so it wasn't too bad.  Josie's gone back to our place to check on things and get Martha those clothes she promised for the child."

   "She doesn't need to go to any trouble," Jonathan protested.  He glanced around him and saw Nell Potter asleep on one of the pallets, her hair covering her face.  The doctor followed his glance.

   "Gave her a few Valiums; she kept getting hysterical all over again.  But she'll sleep it off."

   The younger man nodded; he and Nell had dated in high school, and he knew first hand she didn't handle crises well.  "Where's Lana?"

   The doctor pointed at the folding table next to him.  "Under here."

   Frowning, Jonathan ducked his head down.  Sure enough Lana Lang sat huddled against the wall, her thumb in her mouth.  She stared at Jonathan without expression.

   "She o.k?"

   "She's hiding out."  Sam gestured at the news crew.  "First thing they did when they got here was try to get pictures of her.  Said she was 'the face of Smallville's tragedy.'  I told them where they could stick their cameras."

   "Good for you, Sam."  Just like with the little boy at home, Jonathan felt at a complete loss.  "Should we leave her under there?"

   "My boy, rest his soul, liked to hide under things at that age, too."  There wasn't any sadness in Sam's smile—Toby had died many, many years ago.  He'd be almost Jonathan's age if he hadn't lost his battle with leukemia.  "I say we leave her be for now."

   Nodding, Jonathan held up the bags.

   "Martha sent along some extra blankets and some of Dad's old coats."

   "That Martha—always thinking of others.  If you go downstairs you'll find the Red Cross has got a donation center set up.  There's a bulletin board where people are puttin' up photographs of missing folks, too.  You might want to check and see if anyone put up a picture of the boy you found."

   "Will do, Sam.  Thanks."

   The old man's eyes narrowed as he watched the press interviewing a fire official.  "I'll just set right here with Miss Lana until those folks are on their way."

   Jonathan laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.  "You're a good man, Sam."

   The doctor only waved away the complement.

   Downstairs Jonathan found half a dozen men and women in Red Cross jackets sorting through boxes of supplies.  It looked like soon they would have a makeshift kitchen going to feed the homeless and the rescue personal.

   A blue-haired lady who reminded him of his late grandmother accepted the donations gratefully.

   "We'll be getting more clothes and personal items in this afternoon, but these will be a start.  Some poor folks lost everything."

   Thinking of the child upstairs, he nodded.  "I know."

     Jonathan crossed the room to stand next to Sheriff Coulter.  The sheriff was examining the hastily-made "Missing" posters and rubbing the back of his sunburned neck.

   "How're you holding up, Earl?"

   The other man gave him a tired smile.  "Oh, hello, Jonathan.  As well as anyone else, I expect."

   "Wife and kids ok?"  Jonathan had heard that phrase repeated all over Main Street—it had become the new way residents greeted each other.

   "Fine.  Kids were all still out at Smallville High at a victory party. Thank God the school wasn't hit."

   Jonathan studied the photos tacked to the board.  Most of the names and faces he recognized.  "What's the death toll stand at now?"

   "Officially, twenty-seven.  But the emergency crews are still clearing away debris, so we think it'll rise.  I tell you, Jonathan, not even twenty years on the force prepares you for something like this."

   "I don't think anything would."  Biting his lip, Jonathan took a deep breath.  "Say, Earl, I know it's the last thing you need, but there's a little boy…"

   "The one you and Martha found," the sheriff nodded.  "Doc McIntyre told me all about it.  How's he doing?"

   "He's doing fine, I think—he's home with Martha.  But he's so young he doesn't talk, so he hasn't said anything about who he is or where he came from."  

    The sheriff looked thoughtful.

   "Well, I'll tell you, Jonathan.  No one's reported a missing child, not to the sheriff's office or the police department.  Normally we'd call in Social Services over from Lowell, but they've got their hands full here as it is."  He squinted at his friend.  "I'd be much obliged if you and Martha could look after him until we get things better squared away."

   Able to breathe again, Jonathan smiled.  "We'd be happy to, but is that legal?"

   "It's legal if I say it is, Jonathan."  Sheriff Coulter looked at the board again and shook his head.  "So much death and suffering.  It's enough to break your heart, ain't it?"

   The sheriff clapped his broad-brimmed hat back on his head.  "Better get back out there. Give my regards to Martha."

   "I will—same to Sally."

   Jonathan couldn't quite believe it.  He and Martha had permission to keep the boy, at least for a while.  He'd expected paperwork, social workers…but of course, the county had other priorities at the moment.  The little boy would have to wait until he wouldn't get lost in the shuffle.

   And in the meantime he had a safe, warm home at the Kent farm, as long as he needed one.

  p

     Martha heard the front door open downstairs, and her husband's voice carry up the stairs.

   "Martha, you home?"

   She hastily pulled a dry sweater over her head.  "Coming, Jonathan."

   Her husband stood in the middle of the living room.  He frowned when he saw her wet hair.

   "Taking a bath in the middle of the day?"

   She smiled.  "No, but Clark was.  I think he enjoyed it a little too much."

   Jonathan's frown deepened.  "Who's Clark?"

   Martha pulled her husband into the kitchen and pointed at the little boy happily rolling a toy truck across the linoleum.

   "He's Clark."

   The boy looked up at Jonathan and grinned.  "Hi," he said in his piping little voice.

   "He's picking up words fast now," Martha said quickly.  She could see her husband's face darkening by the second.  "He can say 'hello' and 'goodbye' and 'truck,' and of course, 'spoon,' but you already heard that one…"

   "Martha, you can't name him!"

   "Why not?"

   Jonathan ran his hands through his fair hair.  "Because he isn't ours!"

   She gave him a withering glance.  "I know that, Jonathan—don't you think I know that?  But it looks like he might be here a while and we couldn't keep calling him 'little boy,' could we?"

   He sat down heavily at the kitchen table.  "Martha…"

   She sat down next to him and took his hand.  "I know what you're going to say, Jonathan, and, really, I agree with you.  I know he won't be here forever.  But what's wrong with giving him a name, just for a little while?"

   He sighed, but Martha could see she had won the battle.  He cocked his head and looked at the boy again.

   "Clark, huh?  Why Clark?"

   "Well, you know how my dad always wanted a son to carry on the family name.  I figured having a grandson carrying it on is the next best thing."

   Jonathan opened his mouth again, but shut it hastily when he saw the determined set of his wife's chin.  He knew there was no reasoning with her when she was like this.

   "Where'd the truck come from?"

   "Oh, Josie brought over the most wonderful things!"  Martha gestured for the child.  "Clark, let's go show Jonathan all the nice things Mrs. McIntyre brought you."

   Jonathan obediently followed his wife and the child down the back hall to the spare bedroom.  The solid oak bed his grandfather had carved for his grandmother occupied most of the small space, but Martha had laid out an array of clothes and toys on top of the quilt.  Jonathan hadn't noticed that the little boy—Clark--now wore a red shirt and a tiny pair of dungarees instead of his grungy old sweatshirt.  He had to admit it was an improvement. 

   "See, Jonathan?  There're a bunch of little shirts and these little overalls and some toys and books—even a pair of pajamas, but those are still in the wash.  Good thing children's clothes don't go out of style very fast," Martha beamed.

   "Um hum," her husband answered noncommittally.

   "Really, honey, it'll be a big help.  You'll see.  And Clark loves the toys, don't you, sweetheart?"

   Distracted by running his hands over the brightly colored bedspread, Clark ignored her.

   "How does tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches sound for dinner?"

   "Fine."  

   Martha hummed to herself as she cooked, and Clark, abandoning his truck, tugged on Jonathan's jacket.  Something felt to the floor with a metallic clunk.

   Jonathan picked it up, and studying it in the light realized it must be whatever had fallen off the ship when he'd moved it into the barn.

   Martha eyed it curiously as she sliced cheese.  "What is that?"

   "I don't know," he admitted.  "It fell off the…uh…the whatever it is."  Clark was now jumping up and down in a plea for attention, so Jonathan sat down and lifted the boy onto his knee.

   "Oh."  His wife remained silent for a long moment.

   "It just looks like a flat piece of metal, but there are markings all over one side of it," Jonathan explained as he examined it.

   "What sort of markings?"  Martha dished up the soup and gave each of them sandwich.

   Idly bouncing Clark, Jonathan shrugged.  "Darned if I know.  They look like little pictures, like you'd see in Egyptian tombs…"

   "Hieroglyphics."  His wife supplied the word.

   "Yeah.  But I've no idea what it's supposed to say."

   Giving Clark a triangle of sandwich, Martha frowned.

   "Are you sure it came off the…uh…"

    "Pretty sure.  Where else would it have come from?"  He turned it to and fro while Clark munched contentedly.

   "Maybe it explains where it came from, where Clark came from.  Maybe it's his."

   "Maybe, but if we can't read it I don't see what good it will do."

   Martha ate silently for a moment.  "Jonathan, did anyone in town…say anything?  Find anything…"

   "Like we did?  If they did they're not mentioning it.  Sheriff Coulter says no one's reported a missing child, either, which is strange."

   "Only if he's actually from around here.  Which he probably isn't."

   "Anyway, Earl asked us to look after him, until things calm down."

   Martha's head snapped up.  "Why didn't you say so sooner?  That's wonderful!"

   Jonathan stirred the soup with his spoon and blew on it.  He offered the spoonful to Clark, who tasted it and nodded, seemingly in approval.

   "It's still only temporary, hon.  We can't forget that."

   But Jonathan had a terrible feeling his wife already had.

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	5. ch5

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     "Ladies and gentlemen, if you'll all take your seats we'll get started."  Emma Raleigh, the mayor's secretary, tapped on the microphone, sending a metallic thump echoing through the ancient public address system.  "Please, folks, take your seats."

   "Never seen the place this crowded," Ed Forman grunted, slipping into the last vacant seat in Jonathan's row.

   Jonathan nodded. The old Grange Hall was filled to the rafters with people—locals mostly, but also press and representatives from a variety of local agencies.  Up on the podium he could see Mayor Miller and Sheriff Coulter in deep conversation with several men in dark suits.  The other city council members milled about uncertainly.

   "Martha couldn't make it?"  Ed asked.

   "She's got her hands full with the little boy who's staying with us," Jonathan offered.  Actually, Martha had refused to leave the child long enough to attend the first official town meeting since the meteor strike.  In only three days she and Clark had become inseparable.  Jonathan helped care for the child as best he could, but in the back of his mind was only one thought—that whenever Clark left, it was going to break Martha's heart.  Jonathan would do anything to spare her that pain, if she would only let him.

   When the room finally quieted to a dull roar, the mayor stepped up to the microphone.  "Folks, I'd like to thank you all for taking time out from your families and from caring for the injured to be here today…"

   "Just get on with it, Mike—we haven't got all day," someone shouted.  Jonathan could see Miller's ears turning red with anger, but the mayor continued bravely.

   "Now, Tom, I know we all want answers, but we've got a lot to cover and not much time.  Now I've got the sheriff up here to talk to you about what the city's doing to get everyone through this difficult time."

   As Coulter stepped up the news cameras swung in his direction, whirring away.  Earl cleared his throat.

   "As of this morning, October 30, we've got a revised death toll of thirty four."

   Jonathan watched as every reporter in the room began scribbling frantically.

   "We're putting together a list and the Ledger will be printing it in tomorrow's edition.  Now, we've still got the emergency crews from Metropolis here, and I'm sure we'd all like to thank those folks for their hard work…"

   Only a scattering of applause followed his statement.  Even in a state of emergency Smallville wasn't a big fan of its massive neighbor three hours to the east.

   "Dr. McIntyre says Smallville General's up and running at full capacity again, so those of you who may have been putting off getting medical attention, please get yourself in and seen ASAP."

   "Doc, are those meteors dangerous?"  Harrison Keller shouted.  

    "I've got one in my back field the size of a baseball but it's still too hot to dig up and move!"  Fred Wilson seconded.

   The sheriff waved his arms for silence. 

   "We've got here Mr. Gelson from the EPA to talk to you about that.  Why don't I bring him up here."

   A nervous looking man, one of the black-suited figures Jonathan had noticed earlier, came forward.  

     "The Environmental Protection Agency has been on the scene for the last two days.  We've taken core samples of the meteorites and have sent several to reputable labs for analysis.  We feel confident in assuring you that the meteorites do not pose any danger to human health."

   Next to Jonathan, Ed jumped to his feet.  "What about radioactivity?  I don't want my wife and kid around anything that might make 'em sick, even if it might take years."

   There were cries of agreement.  Nodding heads made a ripple across the room. 

   "The meteorites are not radioactive, sir.  We have not yet identified their point of origin, but they are not dangerous."

   The mayor spoke up again.  "Mr. Gelson, would you say a few words for those folks who've been collecting them to try and get them off their land?"

   "Yes, Mr. Miller.  Um, there is no need to immediately remove any fragments of meteorites, particularly if they are still too hot to handle safely.  For those of you who are concerned, you can call the toll free number that Mrs. Raleigh will hand out and the EPA will handle the removal for you.  The safest thing to do in the meantime if you're really concerned is to bury the meteorites where you find them."

    A few skeptics murmured to themselves, but most seemed satisfied with that solution.  Jonathan was glad there had been no strikes on his property.  He didn't have time to scramble around burying chunks of meteors when he still hadn't figured out what to do with his and Martha's strange little visitor.

     The mayor took back the microphone, assuring his audience that the EPA would be in town for the next several days to answer questions.  He then spoke at some length about the need for everyone to work together to help the town recover as quickly as possible.  Jonathan couldn't help but notice the mayor included cooperation with the media in his pleas.   Miller had always loved the press, trying to get them to visit Smallville for any number of reasons.  Now he had all the press coverage he could have ever wanted, but at a terrible price to the town.

   Jonathan didn't really care one way or another what motivated Miller.  The first newspaperman who set foot on his property would be greeted with the business end of his granddad's shotgun.

   The audience began to shift in their seats as the mayor droned on, and beside Jonathan Ed shook his head.

   "Mike never did know when to stop talking.  Folks want to get home before dark."

    Seeming to sense he'd lost his audience, Miller paused.

   "Well, now, there's just one more quick item of business.  Joe, come on up here, would you?"

   Joe Ross stepped up to the podium, looking a trifle uncomfortable before the cameras.  But before he could open his mouth, someone in the back of the room shouted.

   "Sellout!"

   A murmur of agreement ran around the room.  Joe looked genuinely hurt, and Jonathan couldn't help but turn to Ed.

   "Now that's uncalled for.  Joe's been wanting to retire for years; we all know how the factory's struggled.  LuthorCorp made the only offer he got.  We may not want the Luthors here but there's no need to take it out on Joe."

     Fordman nodded.  "The Ross' have been part of this community since the Civil War.  Joe's always been a good man.  It will just be up to us to make sure Lionel Luthor doesn't get to sink his claws any deeper into this town."

   Joe Ross cleared his throat.  "Well, now, maybe I should let the mayor speak for me."

   Doc McIntyre patted him on the back.  "No, you go on ahead, Joe.  Speak your peace."  The doctor shot the audience a sharp glance, warning them to remain quiet.

   Ross shifted on his feet.  "Uh, well, as most of you know I got a passel of grandchildren at home.  And like most of you I've been so preoccupied with everything the last few days I'd forgotten all about what time of year it is.  But this morning Sarah Morse—stand up, Sarah…"

   A chubby blond girl in the front row of the audience stood up and waved sheepishly.

    "Sarah is the class president of Smallville High's Senior Class of 1990, and she came to me this morning and pointed out that with all the confusion most people have forgotten tomorrow's supposed to be Halloween."

   The parents in the audience groaned.  They had obviously forgotten, too.

   "I know my grandkids have been driving their folks crazy about whether or not the town will have a Halloween this year.  I think we can all agree that with all the destruction and the loss of loved ones, not to mention the curfew in effect, there's no way our kids can trick-or-treat."

   Forman shook his head.  "Damn.  I plum forgot," he whispered to Jonathan.  "And Whitney worked on his costume all last weekend, too."

   "But Sarah and the other kids over at the high school have offered to sponsor a little party for the kids tomorrow night in the school gym.  They came to me for help and I'm more than happy to handle the expenses.  So we wanted to let everyone know that if they'd like to bring their little ones over Smallville High starting at 6 o'clock tomorrow we'll have candy and games waiting."  Joe shrugged.  "That's all I wanted to say."  

   The other town residents forgot their earlier pique and applauded heartily.

   Forman beamed at Jonathan.  "That Joe always thinks of something."

   Jonathan wondered if it would be safe to take the little boy—Clark, he reminded himself hastily.  He nodded.  "If only we knew Luthor would be as good a neighbor."

   Ed snorted.  "Don't count on it."

    Mayor Miller took center stage one last time.  "I'm sure I'd like to thank Joe, too—what a wonderful gift to the town's children."  Miller was a lifelong bachelor.

   People began to gather up their belongings and head for the exit, but Jonathan stayed put.  He told himself he wanted to talk to Fordman more about the situation with Luthor, but truth be told he also wasn't anxious to go home and see Martha dote on the boy all evening.  Somehow he had to get through to her that the boy wasn't theirs, and that becoming attached would just make separation harder for everyone involved.

   Ed ran a hand across his closely cropped hair.  

   "So what do you reckon we should do about Luthor, Jonathan?"

   Weeks ago, when news of the impending sale of the creamed corn factory had leaked out, a handful of concerned citizens—families like the Fordmans, the Travers, and the Hansons--had met at the Kent farm to discuss what the buyout might mean for the town.  Jonathan and Martha had been relieved to find they were not the only residents worried about changes the presence of LuthorCorp might wreak.  Lionel Luthor, the "pesticide king," had a reputation for moving his factories into rural areas.  New jobs attracted growth; growth attracted sprawl, with LuthorCorp subsidiaries doing most of the building.  Not to mention the toll on the environment.  Smallville might not survive such an invasion.

    Jonathan shrugged.  "We'll have to see what Rich Travers thinks we should do next."  

     "The Travers are gone." Jake Guess, the plant manager at the Creekside Foundry, slid up to Jonathan and Mr. Fordman.  The two men shifted in their chairs to look at Jake, who smiled apologetically.

   "Sorry, didn't mean to eavesdrop.  But I thought you two should know first." 

   Jonathan's head reeled at Jake's news.  Rich had lived in town his whole life.  "Killed?" he asked weakly.

     "Not dead. Just AWOL. Their names were taken off the missing persons list yesterday. The neighbors must have done that. I got an express letter from Rich today. He and the family must have reached California by now."  
     Jonathan was stunned. "What? They're gone? How could they just get up and leave Smallville like that?"  
     "And leave everything behind?  Who's going to help us stand up to the Luthors?" Ed added.  
     Jonathan took a deep breath. "Jake. Show us the letter, tell us what happened."  
     Jake pulled out papers from his jacket pocket and unfolded them. "Here. Let's sit down. This is going to take some explaining. First, the Creekside Foundry is completely wrecked. The main building stands, but I bet you a round of beers there isn't much to salvage."  The young man pounded one fist against the back of a chair.  "God damn it! We've been modernizing and retrofitting. All that equipment gone to waste. I've made sure the main gates are locked. No one's getting in. Thank God Rich decided to close the foundry that day for the Homecoming game. But he loved the Crows as much as any of us. Can you imagine what a disaster it would have been if the foundry workers had been on site?"  
     Fordman whistled. Jonathan looked down at the scratched linoleum floor.  Thirty four dead was plenty already.  
     Jake continued. "Anyways, Rich wasn't at the game. Ed, you didn't see him, right?  And he wasn't at the homecoming parade."

   Jonathan frowned.  "What are you implying, Jake?"

      Jake ignored the question.  "So the meteors hit.  And I have to take care of my family first before I start thinking about my job, right?   But this morning I finally get a chance to get away and drive out to the foundry. I drive out to the foundry and it's hell on earth.  Some places in the ground are still smoking. Big holes in the walls, the pavement, the equipment. You know what that means? One hundred and thirty people and their families out of decent jobs. So I start walking the interior and make it to the office. Glass is everywhere, filing cabinets turned over. But I could tell Rich had been there because there were his footprints in the dust.  I see Rich's pistol out on his desk. I don't think he was cleaning it, if you know what I mean. I checked it; all the bullets were there, unfired. I can't say for sure, but I think Rich was on the site when the meteors hit. God knows where he ducked and covered."

    Fordman smiled.  "Rich's always had luck like a rabbit's foot.  We called him 'Lucky Duck' in the Marines."

      Jake scratched his head.  "It's weird if you think about it, Ed.  If Rich had a death wish he had a gun and the meteors to take him out.  But I know he's alive; this letter I've got proves it."  
     "Christ! Are you saying Rich was suicidal?"  Ed Fordman burst out.  "That's bull!"  
   "The man had a macho streak a mile wide. Strength was everything." Jake gentled his voice. "But Rich and Betty were still struggling with Emily.  She wasn't getting any better, health wise."  
     Jonathan's imagination turned to the five-year-old daughter of Rich, born with sickle cell anemia and recently diagnosed with cancer. The child had a strong little spirit, but she'd come close to death too many times. The community gave the couple emotional support, and when Emily was up, she was quite an angel. Martha and Jonathan had been close friends with the Travers.  They connected personally with the child and with the Travers' struggles to stay on top of their daughter's chronic ill health. The girl had been in and out of Metropolis General so many times... 

     Jonathan couldn't help but wonder.  Had Emily and Betty been home at the time of the meteors, or had they been in Metropolis for another blood work-up?  The Travers carried on bravely, but a man can only take so much hardship. Jonathan tried to put himself in Rich's shoes. Was the man suicidal before the meteors hit because of his personal problems, or did he pull out his gun after he witnessed the complete destruction of the facility that his family had owned for three generations? Luckily, something made Rich keep that gun on the desk, unfired. Jonathan felt selfish suddenly; his farm was spared, plus they had a child now. Had the Travers lost everything?  
     "I checked their house afterwards. Locked up. All the furniture is there. Looks like they left in a hurry. The neighbors said that they spoke to Betty as she and Rich were loading up the truck and trailer with suitcases. This was late in the night, like they were getting out quick. Betty was distraught, Rich was tightlipped. Betty just said that the loss was too much. Rich gave the neighbors minimal instructions to keep the house locked and expect movers to come sometime soon to move the belongings." Jake spoke in a monotone, telling the grim little story.  "The neighbors didn't even get to say goodbye to Emily when they drove off. Imagine that."  
     "OK, the letter. I don't know how I'm going to read this to the foundry employees. I've been hiding out in case they see me on the street. I certainly didn't have the balls to say anything at the town meeting just now.  But I've only had this letter for a little while, maybe you can help me accept what it says."  
"To Jake Guess and our employees:  
Betty and I are distraught beyond words as to the damage brought upon our town. Our hearts go out to the families and businesses that have suffered loss in this tragedy. Furthermore, it is obvious that the Creekside Foundry, a successful industry that supported the Smallville community for decades, has to be closed. At this time, with a heavy heart, I must make the decision as to the fate of the property and how to care for the lives its workers. I promise that I will see to it that all employees receive their paychecks, health benefits, workers' comp, and pensions, and that I meet all guidelines and expectations outlined in our union contract. I will use all legal and insurance resources to make sure your families have what they need to rebuild. It's the least I can do to make up for the fact that my family and I will not be returning to Smallville. We will not rebuild the foundry.   
As you know, I was never a supporter of Lionel Luthor and I still oppose his plans to enter our community.  I was vocal and stood up in protest, and I know many appreciated my concern for the well-being and future of the town. But that was before the meteor shower, when I had a successful company to stand behind. I fear that Luthor may use this meteor shower to his advantage. And this time I'm afraid that once the emergency funds run out, people will turn to Luthor Corp. out of fear and believe any promise he makes. But this town must be set right again. I don't know—maybe his plans to bring more industry and prosperity to Smallville may be exactly what the town needs. But I support any and all Creekside employees who want to apply for work with Luthor Corp. I will not be here to keep up the fight. I pray that Luthor does more good than harm.  
Finally, it is time for us all to honor those lost to the meteor strike. My condolences go out to those injured and killed. We mourn along with you. At this time, Betty and I continue to fight for Emily's life. Life is so precious. We are moving west where Emily can have access to city hospitals with specialists. She is our primary concern now, and all we have left. Thank you for all your years of care and support. Good-bye to you all. We will miss you. Spirits Fly, Semper Fi."  
     Fordman was losing his patience, trying to get a handle on the news. "So we just let Luthor buy up everything he pleases? Rich is a fighter! Why would he turn tail, sacrifice everything he's help build here? How many generations of Travers have worked this land?" 

     Jonathan could understand why Ed was so angry. Travers and Fordman had survived Vietnam together. They were two men cut from the same cloth. Strong American sons of immigrant stock, the one Greek, the other, Irish.   
      For Travers to leave when so many community members needed his voice of reason at the city council meetings? Not to mention that Travers had left without even facing his closest friends for a personal goodbye.  No wonder Ed looked like he was going to punch something. His face was turning crimson. 

     Jake just sat in his chair, deflated.   
     Jonathan started taking account in his mind.  Loved ones were lost.  People with families.  People with skills who contributed to the community. If the Travers abandoned Smallville, taking all their influence with them, what would stop other established families from leaving, too? The meteors might take an economic and social toll on the town in ways not yet calculated. LuthorCorp would be right there ready to mold the town into its own image.   
     Jonathan felt his muscles tense at the thought but he forced himself to calm down. Disasters always hit. Tornados, floods, drought, and even meteors did hit every once in a while. His farmer's instincts kicked in.  Tragedy was meant to be overcome. Good times were still ahead as long as they worked hard and kept the faith.   
Jonathan spoke in a soothing tone to reassure Fordman. "Rich is doing what he thinks is right to protect his family. Betty would never give up on Emily, and with the explosions and debris to be cleaned up, God knows the health hazards that Emily would be exposed to. She needs the doctors. Her entire life she'll need doctors. And if the city is where they need to go, fate has made sure that there is nothing left here to give them a reason to stay. And when a man hears the call, he must take action." 

     Listening to himself Jonathan was shocked. How could he think so clearly when all he saw around him was confusion? Why did it suddenly make sense for a man to sacrifice everything for the life of a child? Were his fatherly instincts finally kicking in?   
      Fordman and Travers had once made fun of Jonathan for not being a father yet. Carol Fordman and Betty Travers had been pregnant at almost the same time. Martha had also been pregnant that year, but she and Jonathan had lost that baby in a miscarriage. What was a man supposed to do? 

     Fordman got the healthy son he'd always wanted. Travers was delighted with their daughter until he and his wife had discovered they had passed along a genetic disease to her.  

     The Kents had drawn the short straw. But that was life. Maybe even what God wanted.  Jonathan had never allowed himself to feel sorry for himself or let jealousy ruin good friendships. He still had fun with the other men at football games, poker nights, fishing trips, and weekend Harley rides.  Smallville raised good, strong men. They did right by their families, no matter what.  
     "I'm going to miss him," Jonathan said sadly. 

     The other two men nodded in agreement. 

     "The community is in our hands now," Jonathan continued, "and we have a responsibility to life and how we choose to live it.   Jake, if you need any help, let me know.  It's what Travers would do in my shoes."   
     Jake looked into Jonathan's eyes. The distraught manager let what Jonathan had said sink in.  He couldn't help but admire the farmer.  While so many residents shook with fear and uncertainty, Kent looked cool and collected.  His eyes gleamed with conviction and purpose.   Since Rich had dropped the torch, so to speak, would Jonathan be the one to pick it up?  
     "I'll take you up on that offer, Kent," Jake said. He smiled and shook the farmer's hand. "Come on, Fordman, I'll buy us a couple rounds. Jonathan, you interested?"  
"No, thanks. I have to get back to the farm," Jonathan said.  

   He suddenly felt more cheerful.  Thinking of Travers' and Fordman's commitment to their families, Jonathan suddenly wanted to see Martha and Clark.  Maybe he had a thing or two worth teaching a child after all.

p

     "Mrs. Luthor?"

   Lillian Luthor glanced up to see her son's nanny, Pamela Jenkins, standing in the doorway.

   "Pamela, hello.  Come in, please."  Lily held out a welcoming hand to her friend.

   Pamela set down the stack of books she carried and came to stand by her charge's bed.  She looked at the thin child in silence for a long moment.

   "I'm sorry, Mrs. Luthor, I wanted to come earlier but Mr. Luthor insisted…"

   "I know, I know—Lionel thinks he knows what's best for everyone," the other woman smiled tiredly.  "But I knew you'd want to be here."

   Pamela never took her eyes off the boy.  "Thank you for sending the car for me."  She gently stroked one of the child's clenched fists.  Even in his sleep Lex was frowning. 

   "Has he opened his eyes at all?"

   His mother shook her head.  "No.  Sometimes he thrashes a little in his sleep, like he's having a nightmare, but he never completely wakes up.  The doctors still can't find anything wrong with him, but…Pamela, look at him."

   The nanny touched the child's bare scalp.  "He's alive, Lily," she said, momentarily forgetting the difference in their social standings.   "That's what's important."

   "But you know how cruel children are," Mrs. Luthor countered.  "They'll tease him, call him names.  I couldn't bear that."

   Pamela didn't have the heart to tell her that children already made fun of Lex—for his red hair, his asthma, his social unease.  Lillian loved her son intensely, but she actually spent very little time around him.  Lionel wanted her with him, not at home.  

     Since infancy Lex had cried on Pamela's shoulder, not his mother's.  But Pamela didn't want to hurt her friend more by admitting this.  "He's a strong boy," she offered.

   Lily shook her head, her red hair falling like a curtain across her beautiful face.  "Lionel's so upset he can't even look at Alexander.  I don't know if he'll ever forgive me for insisting he take our son to Smallville."  
   "You wanted them to spend time together," Pamela said softly.  "Lex had just gotten back from school--your intentions were good."

   Lillian rested her face in her hands.  "I can't believe this is happening to us, to Alexander.  Lionel's always made me feel so safe.  He's always been the decisive one."  She smiled wanly through her tears.   "When my father refused to give us his blessing because he thought I was marrying beneath me, do you know what Lionel told me?  He said that it didn't matter to him what anyone thought of him.  That the only thing that mattered was that he wanted me to be his wife."

   "And Lionel always gets his way."  Pamela tried not to sound bitter.  She had never seen eye to eye with her employer, and it had gotten worse since Lionel Luthor had decided to take a firmer hand with his son.

   Lionel already had almost total control over his wife's life: her friends, her social engagements, even her wardrobe.  Strangely Lillian Luthor seemed to prefer things this way.  The sheltered daughter of a wealthy, eccentric father, Lily had never learned to fend for herself.  Even as an adult she remained as delicate as her namesake.  But Pamela knew Lex to be made of sterner stuff, if only his father would accept the child as a separate individual, and not just an extension of his ego. 

   "My poor baby," Lillian said as she continued to cry.  "My poor, poor baby."

   Mrs. Jenkins took Lily by the shoulder.  "You mustn't speak like that, Mrs. Luthor.  Lex might hear you.  He needs you to be strong for him right now."

   Looking up at her friend, Lily blinked her wide green eyes.  "I want to be, Pamela, but I don't know how."

   "Of course you do," the nanny soothed.  "You're his mother.  Look, I've brought some of his favorite books."  She picked up the pile of books and set it on the bedside table.  "I thought we could take turns reading to him; he'll like that.  I've brought Treasure Island, and The Secret Garden, and Robinson Crusoe…

   Lily wiped away her tears.  "You're so good to him, Pamela."

   "I love him," the other woman said simply.

   "I know you do, and he loves you," Mrs. Luthor smiled.  "Why don't you read to us both for awhile."

   Pamela nodded, and pulled a chair up to the side of the hospital bed.  She selected one of the expensive leather-bound books Lionel had had imported from London.  Clearing her throat, she started to read.

   "When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen.  It was true, too.  She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression.  Her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in India and had always been ill in one way or another…"

     Lily laid her head against the back of the chair, and while both women listened to the child's steady breathing Mrs. Jenkins read.    
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	6. ch6

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     "Look!"  Clark cried from Jonathan's arms, pointing at the brightly lit gymnasium.

   "It's pretty, isn't it, Clark?"  Martha smiled at him.

   "The kids sure went all out," her husband admitted.  Smallville High's gym had been draped in orange crepe paper.  Tables full of cookies and candy boasted smiling jack o'lanterns.  Some teenagers were painting faces, while children bobbed for apples and carved pumpkins.  Others, already high on sugar, just chased each other around the smooth floor.  It looked very festive, but Jonathan noticed the decorators had been very careful to avoid any of the more grisly symbols of Halloween.  There were no skeletons, no dripping blood, nothing colored back.  As Joe Ross had promised, everything looked cheerful and fun for the town's children.

   The man himself approached, smiling at them.  "Martha, Jonathan, you came!  And you brought the little boy."

   "Place looks great, Joe," Jonathan shook the older man's hand.  "We sure do appreciate all the effort."

   "Ah, it was really the high school kids that came through.  I just provided the refreshments."

   "And the decorations, and the door prizes…" Dale Ross stood behind his father, his youngest son perched on his shoulders.  "Not to mention twisting the mayor's arm about lifting the curfew for tonight."

   Dale's wife Kate laughed.  "Joe's good at twisting arms.  Jonathan, Martha, you remember our children?  That's Mike, and here's Sam, and that's Peter hanging off his dad's neck.  Kathy and Jim are over in the corner with their friends."

   The two older boys nodded politely before scrambling back to the party, but Peter stayed where he was.  "Hi," he offered with a winning grin.  His missing front teeth made him look a little like a jack o'lantern himself.  

   "We haven't seen you two in a while," Martha smiled.  

   "Yes, isn't it a shame that it takes something like this to pull the town together?"  Kate commiserated.

   "How's the law practice going?"  Jonathan set Clark down, but instead of running off to play the boy attached himself to Jonathan's leg.

   "Well, you know what it's like to start a new business, any new business."  Dale and Kate were both attorneys.  "Especially in a town this size.  But we wanted the kids to grow up with family nearby."

   "I don't know how the two of you do it.  Five kids and two law practices.  When do you sleep?"

   "Whenever we can," Dale joked.  He nodded at the child hugging Jonathan's legs.  "I'm sure you two are learning that."

     "Clark's a really good sleeper so far," Martha offered.  "We haven't had a bit of trouble." 

   "Wait 'til he's older," Joe laughed.

   There was an uncomfortable silence, broken when Dale set his son down.  "Peter, why don't you take Clark and get some cookies before they're all gone."

   ""kay."  Peter sidled closer to the other boy.  "Let's go."

   Clark only blinked at him, and Martha hastily intervened.  "I'm afraid he doesn't talk much yet, Peter."

   "Oh."  Peter grinned again, undeterred.  "But let's go get some cookies.  They have chocolate chip."  The Ross children had a reputation for being usually bright and precocious; clearly the youngest was following in his siblings' footsteps.

   Peering up fearfully at Jonathan, Clark had pursed his lips into a tight line.  Jonathan touched him gently on the top of the head.  

   "Run along with Peter, Clark.  Martha and I will be right here."

   The child still looked uncertain, but he allowed Peter to take his hand and tow him toward the refreshment tables.  Neither of them was quite tall enough to see over it, but the other children around them had cookies and popcorn balls.

   "I want cookies," Peter announced to the lady behind the table.  When she gave him two in an orange napkin he thanked her the way his parents had taught him.  "What d'ya want, Clark?"  He asked the other boy.  "D'ya want one of my cookies?"

   Clark shook his head, pointing instead at a platter of shiny red objects.

   "Those are candy apples," his new friend explained.  "They're pretty good, too.  I'll get you one."  Pointing at Clark, Peter explained, "He doesn't talk, but he wants a candy apple.  Can he have one?"

   "Of course."  The volunteer smiled at them and gave Clark an apple.

   He held onto it by the stick, admiring the pretty candy coating.

   "You're s'posed to eat it, not look at it," Peter counseled.  "Stick it in your mouth."

   Clark did his best to fit the whole apple in his mouth, but he couldn't do it.  The other boy laughed.

   "Not the whole thing!  Take a bite.  Here, I'll hold it for you."  Having already devoured his cookies Peter took the treat and held it out for Clark to take a bite. 

   He did so obediently, startling a little when the candy shell shattered in his teeth.  But he chewed and swallowed with a smile. 

   "Good," Clark offered.

   "Told you."

   Clark took the apple back and held it out so Pete could have a bite.  Taking turns they two little boys managed to make short work of the apple.

   Across the room Martha smiled.  It was good to see Clark getting along with another child.  She'd been afraid the other boy might sense something about Clark was…different.

   "So do you think you'll be able to keep him?"  Dale was asking Jonathan.

   "We're not sure yet.  No one's claimed him."

   "But you want to, right?"  Kate asked.

   "Of course we do," Martha nodded.

   "Well, if you need any help or advice, let me know; my old college roommate specializes in family law," Mrs. Ross offered.

   Jonathan hastily changed the subject.  "So, Joe, you're a retiree now."

   "Yep."  Joe scratched his head.  "Hell of a way to start the next phase of my life, though.  You know, Luthor was out at the plant to sign the papers when the meteors came down.  That was how his boy got hurt, playing in the cornfield.  I hope the kid's all right; he was quite a sight when we brought him into town."

   Remembering his encounter with the Luthors, Jonathan frowned.  "I remember."

   "Lionel Luthor's got some big plans for the business.  Wants to expand, hire on more people," Joe said proudly.

   "That'll be great, if it's true," Dale Ross said.

   "You don't think it is?"  Jonathan asked.

   "Dale's just upset that I didn't take the papers to a lawyer.  But I read them a dozen times, and so did Mark.  Everything was on the up and up."  Joe nodded.  "Besides, no businessman is worth more than his word."

   Jonathan grinned.  "You're right there."

   "That's in Smallville, pop."  The younger Ross shook his head.  "Luthor's from Metropolis, remember?  I just don't want to see something you and granddad worked so hard to build destroyed by someone like him."

   "He wouldn't get rid of the creamed corn factory, would he?"  Martha glanced over to make sure Clark and Peter were ok; they were watching the pumpkin carving.  "That's the town's biggest employer."

   "And the biggest buyer of our corn," Jonathan added.  "But I'm sure it'll be o.k.  Like Joe says, Luthor gave his word."  However concerned he and other townspeople might be about the deal with LuthorCorp, Jonathan was determined not to upset Joe.

   Dale frowned, clearly indicating what he thought of Lionel Luthor's word.  But his wife patted him on the arm.

   "Don't spoil the evening by getting worked up again, honey.  Let the kids enjoy themselves; it's been a terrible week for everyone."  Kate smiled again.  "I hear both schools will be reopening Monday.  It'll be a relief to get the kids back into their routine."

   "I don't think any of us appreciated our routines 'til now," her husband nodded.  "Have you two heard they'll be setting up a temporary FEMA office in the Talon?"

   "It'll take months for all the paperwork to get straightened out," Joe sighed.

   "I've heard some people's insurance companies are saying they won't cover the damage from the meteors.  'An act of god,' that's what they're calling it," Kate complained.  "It's outrageous."

   "Jonathan and I got lucky, just losing the truck," Martha sighed.  "It could have been so much worse."

   They were all silent for a moment, thinking of friends lost.  All around them kids, finally able to forget the anxiety of the last few days, laughed and played.

   "I wish Nell had brought Lana out," Martha shook her head.  

   Joe nodded in agreement.  "She needs to be with other children."

   "I don't think either of them are coping too well," Jonathan explained.  "But Mrs. McIntyre is looking after them, and she knows what she's doing."

   "It will be hard for both of them, but especially for Lana.  Her old life is gone." Kate smiled sadly.  "Children need stability, Martha—trust me on this.  If you and Jonathan think you might be keeping Clark the sooner you get him settled in the better."     

   Martha exchanged a long look with her husband.  Though neither one had admitted it yet, keeping Clark was very much in the forefront of their minds.  Surely if no one else came forward the boy would need a home.  And why not with the two people who had cared for him since his arrival?

   Jonathan put an arm around his wife.

   "We're working on it," he said with a smile.

p

      "Nell?  Your tea's ready," Josie McIntyre called into the living room.

   The figure that stumbled into the kitchen hardly resembled the usually fashionable, fastidious Nell Potter.  Her hair hadn't been styled in days, and she sported a pair of grungy old sweats.  She accepted the mug of tea gratefully.

   "Josie, you're a lifesaver.  I keep reading and rereading Lewis and Laura's will, and I still can't make heads or tails out of it."

   Josie clucked in sympathy.  "Yes, legal papers are like that, aren't they?  Maybe you could get one of the Ross' to look at them."

   Nell shrugged.  "Maybe."  She glanced around the spacious kitchen.  The house had belonged to her parents; Nell and her sister, Laura, had grown up in it.  When their parents had died Nell had stayed in Smallville so she'd be close to her florist's shop.  Taking over the old family home had seemed like the natural thing to do, though Nell often felt she rattled around in it all by herself.  

     But of course she was no longer by herself.  The meteor shower had seen to that.

   "Where's Lana?"

   "Under the dining room table."  Josie held up a hand before Nell could dart into the other room.  "Leave her be, Nell.  She has some of her dolls and she's playing quietly.  Best not to upset her."

   The younger woman set down her cup.  "I can't stand this.  If she's not under a table she's in the laundry hamper or out in the hayloft.  I wish she'd quit hiding from me."

   Josie touched Nell's arm.  "She's not hiding from you, dear.  She just needs some time to herself, to process what's happened.  Children her age don't adapt to change very well."

    "She's going to have to adapt sooner or later.  Believe me, I'd do anything to bring my sister and her husband back, but that isn't going to happen."  Nell's face crumpled.  "We can't even bury them."

   Josie nodded.  The heat from the meteor had been so intense Sam and the others hadn't been able to find the Lang's remains.  She consoled herself with the knowledge that in an impact like that the end would have been quick.  In the blink of an eye it had all been over.

   "But you can have a memorial service and headstones," Mrs. McIntyre suggested.  "That will give everyone—especially Lana—a chance to say goodbye."

     Nell only shrugged again.  "I really can't think about that right now.  The Ledger says thirty-four people died—there'll be funerals for weeks.  I've got to get the florist shop open again, and send for Lana's things…"   She clasped her hands over her eyes in despair.   "God, how am I going to manage?  I'm not a mother.  I never wanted to be a mother."

   "You come from good stock, Nell Potter.  You'll make it all work, I know you will.  At least Lana has a relative to stay with.  Think of that poor child the Kents found, all alone, and nobody claiming him."

   "Jonathan always wanted kids," Nell said with a wry smile.  "Funny this is how he gets one."  She frowned.  "That sounded unkind—I'm sorry, Josie."

   The doctor's wife nodded.  She knew Jonathan Kent remained a sore spot with Nell.  The whole town had expected Nell and Jonathan, high school sweethearts, to marry eventually.  Instead Jonathan had married a woman from Metropolis, and Nell…Well, Nell seemed content to build a business.  She had acquired a reputation as something of a businesswoman in town, buying the building that housed her shop as well as the Talon, and selling off some of her family's land now that they no longer farmed.

   "At least with the land you sold you won't have to worry about Lana's future."  Josie turned her attention back to the stove, where she was preparing a variety of different meals that could be frozen and thawed when Nell needed them.  

   "Yes, I suppose not."  Nell allowed herself to think—just for a moment—about Lionel Luthor.  He had been so handsome, so urbane when he'd dropped by to sign the papers completing the sale to LuthorCorp.  Of course, he was married, and Nell didn't get involved with married men.  But still….

   "Mr. Luthor said they might be interested in acquiring more acreage if I want to sell.  I've got to say, I find the money a lot more useful than having all that uncultivated land just sitting there."

   "I'd be careful if I were you, Nell." Josie frowned as she tested a pot of spaghetti sauce for seasoning.  "A lot of people in town don't think much of Lionel Luthor and don't think we should do business with him.  After all, we don't know him from Adam."

   Nell rolled her eyes.  That was exactly what had always driven her crazy about this town---the narrow mindedness, the provincialism.  In high school she had dreamed that she and Jonathan would be leaving all that behind, maybe moving to Metropolis.  Hyrum Kent's illness may have kept Jonathan here, but she had never expected to get stuck here, too.  And she didn't even have Jonathan as compensation.

   "Lionel Luthor's going to do great things for this town, Josie.  New businesses, new people.  You can't stop progress.  Besides, it's not like I had buyers lining up at my door.  No one else can afford to purchase more land."

   "Land rich and cash poor, like always," Josie smiled.  "That's what it means to be a farmer, I guess."

    A timer dinged and Mrs. MacIntyre removed a sheet of cookies from the oven.

   "Sugar cookies, for Lana," she winked at Nell.  "I cut them in the shape of little pumpkins since its Halloween."

     Nell, who had flunked Home Ec, admired the neat little cookies.  "They're cute, Josie.  You know, Joe Ross called me and asked me to bring Lana to the party in town, but she refused to go.  In fact, she burst into tears."  

     Nell scowled.  Lana had been so excited about Halloween.  This was the first year she'd been old enough to really appreciate the wonder of a holiday where you got to dress up and beg for candy.  The child had been in her fairy costume the day of the meteor shower.  Once Lana's parents had let her try it on they couldn't talk her into changing out of it.  

   "I know she looks silly," Laura had laughed.  "But Lana can be really stubborn when she wants to be, and I can always wash it before she goes trick or treating."

   As soon as the Red Cross people had come up with some clean clothes for the little girl Nell had stuffed the costume, stained with smoke and tears, into a garbage bag and thrown it in the dumpster behind the Talon.

   Josie put some cookies on a plate and smiled.  

   "Why don't you take these in to her while they're still hot.  They taste best that way."

   Nell sighed, but nodded.  Taking the plate in one hand and a carton of milk in the other she went through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room.  She knelt down and peered under the table.

   Lana, her long dark hair pulled back from her face in a bow, had laid out all her dolls on the floor.  Nell couldn't help but notice each lay on its back staring up helplessly.

   "Hey, there.  Mrs. McIntyre made you some cookies," Nell said gently.  She set the plate down and gestured at the dolls.  "What's all this?"

   "They all died.  I'm having a funeral," Lana explained.

   A cold shiver ran down Nell's neck at the child's mater-of-fact tone.

   "Sweetheart, you know that dollies can't die."  She hastily started gathering up the grim display.  "Come on now, let's not play that game anymore.  It's too morbid."

   "What's morbid?"

   Nell sighed.  "It's…well, never mind for now.  I'll explain later.  Here, eat a cookie."

   Lana frowned, but accepted a cookie when Nell handed it to her.  She took a quick bite.  "Hot," she said approvingly.

   "Yeah, she just made them."

   The child's eyes filled with tears.  "My mommy makes cookies, too."

   Nell pulled the child, cookie and all, into her lap.  "I know, baby.  Your mommy used to make really good cookies.  But she can't, not anymore.  Do you understand?"

     Lana shook her head fiercely.  "No."

   Kissing her niece's dark hair, Nell nodded.  "I know you don't.  I'm not sure I do, either.  But I promise I'm going to take really good care of you.  And you're going to help take care of me, too.  Because that's what's families do."

p   

     As they drove home that night Martha kept thinking about what Kate had said.  Sitting between them, Clark was gleefully pawing through the bag of candy and small toys every child had been given at the party.  He kept taking everything out, examining it carefully, and then putting it all back in the bag.  She loved the way Clark's forehead scrunched when he was thinking.

   "He's so happy," she told her husband.

   "Of course he is—he's a little boy full of sugar," Jonathan laughed as they pulled into their driveway.

   He swung Clark out of truck and the boy shrieked happily.  "Let's go, big fella.  Time for bed."

   Inside Martha led the two of them roughhouse for a while.  They rolled around on the living room carpet like two happy puppies while she went upstairs to get Clark's pajamas.  As soon as Clark saw the striped garments, however, he turned rebellious, clearly unwilling to go to bed when he was having so much fun.

   "No," he said mulishly.

   Jonathan sighed.  "What were you telling Kate and Dale about him being a good sleeper?"

   Martha shrugged.  "Well, Joe did try to warn us."  She made a grab for Clark, but the child ducked under her arm and headed for the back hall.

   "I'll get him," Jonathan promised.  "Come back here, young man," he said as he followed the sound of Clark's giggling.  "No more playtime—it's bedtime."

   "No."  

   Jonathan heard the muffled voice coming from the spare bedroom.  Pausing in the doorway he couldn't see Clark, but he could hear the child laughing under the enormous bed.

   "Ok, you.  Out of there.  I mean it.  Martha's waiting to get you all ready for bed."

   He sighed.  Clark probably thought this was another game.  "All right, I'm coming to get you."  He dropped to his knees and stuck his head under the bed slats.

   Clark was curled up in the far corner, smiling at him.  The boy clapped his hands.

   "This isn't a game, Clark.  I want you to come out now."

   Jonathan was relieved his grandfather had built the bed so high off the ground; he could slide most of his big body under it.

   "Come out of there, Clark."  He couldn't quite reach the child with his arm.  How did parents manage when a child didn't obey?

   "Clark, come out now or no story."

   Jonathan heard Martha's voice from the doorway.  He grinned.  The cavalry had arrived.

   In the darkness Jonathan could see the child was weighing his options.  Play, or story?  That must be a tough call for a toddler to make.

   Half under the bed Jonathan waited for Clark to make up his mind.  There was no way the child could wriggle away; he'd have to come out sooner or later…

   And then suddenly the bed frame lifted off him.

   "What the…!?!"  Jonathan quickly slid back out from under the bed.

   "Jonathan, what's happening?"  Martha cried.

   They both stood there in awe as the bed seemed to levitate before their eyes.  Only it wasn't levitating.  They could see Clark now, quite clearly, holding the bed up by the corner.  The little boy laughed at the astonished expressions on their faces.

   "Jonathan, do something, he'll hurt himself…"

   "I don't think so, Martha."  He cleared his suddenly dry throat.  "Clark, come out of there right now.  You heard Martha tell you.  Don't you want to be a good boy?"

   The child frowned, clearly disappointed the adults didn't think his little joke was as funny as he did.  The bed went down with a crash.

  Jonathan dropped to his knees again, ready to snatch Clark out of danger if he'd been pinned against the wall, but Clark crawled out on his own.  

     He stood up on his short little legs, smiling bashfully.  "Story," he opined, clearly having made up his mind about what he valued more.

   Martha sank to the floor.  Jonathan wanted to stand up but couldn't quite get his legs to function.

   "Did we just see what I think we saw?"  Martha whispered hoarsely.

   "That bed weighs five hundred pounds, easy.  It took six men to carry it downstairs."  Jonathan shook his head, staring at Clark.

   The boy cocked his head to one side.  "Story," he repeated.

   Martha recovered first, holding out her arms for the child.

   "Martha, don't…"

   His wife hugged Clark from her position on the floor.  "He's only a baby, Jonathan—he doesn't know he did anything wrong."  She took Clark's face in her hands.  "That was very naughty, Clark," she told him, her voice shaking only slightly.  "You must always listen to what Jonathan and I tell you.  Always, do you understand?"

   Clark looked alarmed by her distress.  He buried his face in her sweater, sniffling apologetically.

   Jonathan wiped his brow.  "I just don't understand this.  How can he do that?  What is he?"

   "He's a little boy, the same little boy you were playing with five minutes ago."

   "Martha, no little boy can lift weights like that!"

   "Keep your voice down, Jonathan, you're frightening him."

   Clark had started to whimper.  Martha kissed his hair.  

   "It's ok, baby.  Everything's ok.  You just scared us, is all."

   She picked him up again and stood.  "I'm going to put him to bed.  Then we can talk."

   Jonathan watched helplessly as his wife carried Clark out of the room.  He could hear her footsteps on the stairs, and knew she'd be putting the child to sleep in their bed again.

   He sat still for a long moment, rubbing his chin and trying to make sense of what was happening.  Finally he got up and, without a word to Martha, grabbed his coat and went outside.

   The harvest moon hung low and round in the sky as he unlocked the barn door and swung it open.

   The familiar smells of hay and animals greeted him.  He'd spent at least part of nearly every day of his life in this barn.  As a boy he'd had chores to do; as a teenager he'd taken over most of the work after his father had been diagnosed with a heart condition.  By eighteen he'd taken over the running of the farm completely.  He'd often wondered what he would do when he became too old to run things properly.  He had no son or daughter to ease the burdens of old age.  

   Jonathan crossed to the far corner and lifted the tarps that covered the strange object he and Martha had found in the field with Clark.  It lay tilted to one side, gleaming faintly in the moonlight sifting down from the rafters.  He could no longer lie to himself about what it was.

   It was a spaceship.

   "Seems like a million years ago, doesn't it?"

   Jonathan whirled around at the sound of his wife's voice.  She stood in the doorway smiling softly.  

   "Hard to believe it's only been a few days."  Martha came to stand next to him and took his hand.  "Clark's already so much a part of our lives, Jonathan."

   "Martha, you know we probably wouldn't have been able to keep him, even if he was a normal child.  But he's not.  We can't lie to ourselves.  He's not normal.  He isn't even human."

   Martha released his hand.  "He looks and acts just like a normal little boy, Jonathan.  You saw him with Peter Ross…"

   "But he isn't like us, Martha.  He's a…..a…"

   In the faint light Jonathan could see his wife's eyes fill with tears.

   "Just say it, Jonathan."

   "He's an alien, Martha."  As the words came out Jonathan had a hard time believing them himself.  But he was no longer going to deny the evidence before his own eyes.  

   "That child asleep in our bed fell to earth from God knows where.  He may look like a child now, but he's already stronger than a grown man.  Who knows what will happen as he gets older?  Who knows why he's here?"

   Martha stood her ground.  "Maybe he was sent here.  Because I wanted him."

   Jonathan moaned.  "Martha, you know that isn't true…"

   "I don't know that isn't true, Jonathan!  All these years we've been waiting and trying and praying for a child and this one comes to us!  How can you say he isn't supposed to be ours?"  

   Hearing the rising tide of hysteria in his wife's voice, Jonathan embraced her and held her tightly.  

   "I know that's what you want to believe, honey.  I'd like to believe it, too.  But it just isn't so."  He could feel Martha's warm tears soaking though his shift front.  "He can't stay here, Martha.  You and I can't handle him."

   "So what do we do?"  His wife said in a muffled voice.

   "We need to find people better equipped to handle this kind of thing."

   Martha sniffed loudly.  "Who?  The FBI?  The CIA?  Who handles little boys who fall from the sky, Jonathan?"

   "I don't know, honey."  He shook his head.  "I just don't know."

/html


	7. ch7

html

     Joe Ross swung his old blue truck into the gravel parking lot of the factory.  His son, Mark, stood in the doorway, as did several perplexed looking employees.  Across the lot sat a much larger truck, marked Interstate Moving and Shipping.  Joe chewed on his lip for a moment.  His son's nearly hysterical phone call had pulled him away from breakfast, and Joe had rushed out to the factory before he'd remembered it wasn't his anymore.  But, of course, he was still Mark's father, and if his son needed him…

    Hopping out, Joe hurried over.  "What's all this, Mark?  What's going on?"  

    They stepped through the doorway on to the factory floor, and Joe was immediately struck by the silence.  Normally the place rang with the sounds of assembly lines and employee chatter.  Now the employees stood in twos and threes near motionless machinery, glancing at him nervously.

   "Over this way, Dad."  Mark led his father past the labeling equipment and through the swinging doors to the canning lines.  A group of four men were hard at work dismantling the steam sterilization equipment.

   Joe forgot all about his private pledge not to remain so personally involved with the plant. 

     "What in the sam hell are you doing?"  He bellowed.  "You can't take this equipment out of here.  Every second we're off-line we lose money!"

   One of the group, a burly man with a goatee whose nametag read "Carl", shook his head.  

     "Look, old man, I don't know who you are, but I got orders.  Like I told that guy, " he pointed at Mark, "I got all the paperwork right here.  This rig's been sold to Kramer Canning up in Central City.  We get paid extra if we can get in there by tomorrow, so if you don't mind…"

   "We do mind!  Without sterilization equipment you can't can food.  We'll have the FDA down here in a flash, and Mr. Luthor won't like that one bit, I tell you!"  Mark responded hotly.

   Joe held out his hand.  "Let me see that paperwork."  He thumbed through the sheaf of brightly colored papers the other man handed him.

   "Well, Pop?  It's a mistake, right?"

   Joe could hear the tinge of desperation in his son's voice, and he sighed.

   "Afraid not, son.  According to this someone over at LuthorCorp signed off on the sale."

   Behind him employees began to whisper loudly.

   "But I'm sure it's all a mix-up."  Joe tried to smile.  "Mr. Luthor's only had the plant a few days, and I'm sure with everything that's happened this got overlooked."

   "Maybe so, bub," Carl responded, "but we still got a job to do here.  So if ya'll will just step out of the way we'll get back to work."

   Mark stepped forward again, but his father laid a hand on his arm.  

   "Don't, son.  Let's go back to the offices and get LuthorCorp on the phone."

   Nodding grimly, Mark followed his father to their former offices.  Joe's secretary (ex-secretary now), Mabel, greeted them in the doorway.

   "Mr. Ross, thank goodness you're here!  The workers are asking me all sorts of questions and I don't know what to tell them."  She looked at him with fearful eyes.  "Is Mr. Luthor shutting us down?"

   "We don't know anything yet, Mabel," he soothed.  "Just tell 'em Mark and I are working on it."

   The two men went in to Mark's office and closed the door.  Joe glanced around; his son had started packing boxes.  Since Mr. Luthor had not promised to keep Mark Ross on as plant manager, his son had been busy scouting other opportunities.  Joe had figured Luthor would know a skilled manager when he saw one, but maybe not.

   "Pop, I didn't want to say anything out on the floor, but I tried calling LuthorCorp as soon as the tuck pulled up.  No one there would give me a straight answer about anything."

   "Did you ask to speak to Luthor?"

   "Of course I did."  Mark grimaced.  "Some flunky told me he wasn't in and transferred me to his secretary.  I left a message but somehow I don't think I should hold my breath until he calls back."

   "Mark, try and calm down.  You know the terms of the sale don't allow Luthor to sell the plant on.  Maybe he's upgrading.  You know some of that equipment is ancient."

   "Upgrading without having the new parts standing by?  Pop, we can't get back on line without it, and until we're back on line there's no work for anyone."  Mark kicked one of the cardboard boxes.  "I can't even send everyone home because I don't know if I'm their manager anymore or not."   

   The older man leaned on his son's desk.  "Transitions in business are never smooth, son.  There's bound to be some choppy water.  LuthorCorp's never been in the food processing industry and I doubt they know how to run things out here."

   "That's just it, Dad."  Mark softened his voice at the distressed look on his father's face.  "I know everything in that contract seemed on the up and up.  But I'm still wondering why a corporation that specializes in pesticides wanted this factory in the first place."  He gestured at the closed door.  "Those people out there depend on us for their jobs.  What if we've sold all of them out?"

   Joe shook his head.  "That isn't going to happen, son.  We won't let it.  I'll speak to Luthor myself and make sure he doesn't renege on our deal."

   Looking at his father, Mark felt a little sick.  His dad had always been so strong, so proud of the business his family had built, even as it struggled.  Joe Ross had greeted Luthor's offer as a blessing, a way to preserve Ross Creamed Corn from death at the hands of its creditors.  But Mark wondered now if all his father's hard work had done was ensure the factory's much slower and more painful death at the hands of Lionel Luthor.

p

     Jonathan set the last book aside and sighed.  After the events of the night before he had decided he'd better come up with some answers, fast.  He'd driven over to the community college in Lowell first things in the morning, and pulled from its library shelves everything he could find on aliens and extra-terrestrial research.

   Finding a quiet spot in a secluded corner, Jonathan poured though the books, but soon realized he wasn't going to find what he was looking for here.  

   Most of the books were clearly written by quacks, describing encounters with big-headed aliens who performed terrifying experiments on abducted humans.  Clark's head didn't seem much bigger than that of a human child of his size, and the kid had a hard enough time using a knife and fork, let alone wielding a scalpel.  Although some of the authors suggested that extra terrestrial life could be similar to humans, Jonathan suspected that they meant two arms and two legs, not similar enough to pass off to a whole town as a human child.

   The more scholarly journal articles seemed equally full of speculation.  Scientists argued with each other in the pages about how alien life might evolve.  Would they breathe oxygen or something else?  Would they be carbon-based, or made out of something else?  Not one them would put their butts on the line and say that alien life existed; all they would say is that it was "possible."

   Jonathan snorted.  Sure, it had seemed "possible" to him, too, until he'd brought a miniature spacecraft and its miniature occupant home.  Then it had made the fantastic leap from "possible" to "definitely real."

     There was certainly no way he could in good conscience hand Clark over to any of these people.  Whatever he was, Clark was definitely still a child, and he would need people who could see past his origins and his abilities to his very human, very child-like needs.

   Jonathan gave up and returned the items he'd selected to the reshelve cart.  On a whim he headed over to the newspapers neatly hung on wooden rods.  The library carried the Ledger, and Lowell's own Gazette, as well as the Daily Planet out of Metropolis.  They also had American papers from as far away as Star City out on the west coast.  There were a few international ones, too, and each and every one featured the meteor shower somewhere on its front page.  He grabbed a few and started scanning their pages for any scientific news about the shower.

   Most seemed to prefer more sensational stories of tragedy and disaster, and Jonathan saw the same photos of ruined buildings, injured people, and public officials over and over again.  He wondered if any of the newspapermen knew or cared that these were his friends and neighbors they were splashing all over their pages.  And if a meteor shower got this kind of coverage, what would they do with Clark?  Jonathan instantly added another requirement to his list: whoever took the child would have to understand the importance of secrecy, for little Clark's sake.

   The scientific articles, buried on the middle pages, featured lots of charts and diagrams of meteors and how they struck the earth.  A few featured action shots of meteors falling from the sky, and Jonathan found himself engrossed in an article that featured discussions of other know meteor strikes around the world.  None came close to Smallville's in terms of loss of life or damage, but he was surprised by just how many meteors fell to earth every year.  The problem with the Smallville meteor strike, the article argued, was simply that those meteors had not burned up in the atmosphere.  They had remained large enough, even through reentry, to hit with devastating force.  Which was odd, but not unheard of.  After all, some scientists believed an even bigger meteor may have wiped out the dinosaurs millions of years ago.

   Scanning the by-line, Jonathan saw that the author was affiliated with someplace called S.T.A.R. Labs.  He hastily thumbed through the other papers around him, and saw that most of the other good articles had come from there, too.

   He rubbed a finger across his chin, and after a moment stood and approached the librarian's desk.  

   The woman looked up though cat's eyes glasses.

   "May I help you?"

   "Yes—I'd like to find out everything I can about a place called S.T.A.R. labs, but I don't know where to start."

   "Ah, yes.  Do you know what the initials stand for?"

   "No, sorry."

   The middle-aged woman glanced over her shoulder at where a pink-haired girl arranged books for reshelving.

   "Stacy, do you know what the initials in S.T.A.R. labs stands for?  Stacy's a chemistry major when she's not working for us," the librarian explained to Jonathan.

     "Scientific and Technological Advanced Research Laboratories," the young woman confided.  "They're out of Metropolis."  She glanced at Jonathan.  "What do you need to know?"

   "Well, I'm not sure.  I've just been seeing their name a lot in the papers since the meteor strike and I was curious.  Are they part of Metropolis University?  I thought they had their own labs."

   Stacy grinned, showing off her braces.  "They do, really good ones.  S.T.A.R. is independent, but they do contracting work.  For the government, mostly.  You know, hush-hush kind of stuff."

   "Like meteors?"  Almost against his will Jonathan was intrigued.

   "Like anything unusual—meteors or mutations or psychic anomalies…anything weird and freaky."

   Jonathan frowned.  "They're not one of those outfits that talk about bug-eyed aliens, are they?"

   Stacy laughed.  "No, they're legit.  You pretty much have to be a genius with, like, six degrees to work for them.  But I guess if there are any bug-eyed aliens out there they'd know about it.  Heck, they've probably got one on staff."

   The librarian frowned at the girl's banter.  

   "And where might this gentleman go to find information about it?"  
   "Oh, right, sorry.  Well, there aren't any books, but you could try the major science journals.  Nova, OMNI, that kind of thing.  I'm sure they'll give you an idea what S.T.A.R works on."

   Jonathan nodded.  "Great.  Thanks, I really appreciate it."

   As he headed back into the stacks, Jonathan thought he could just make out a light at the end of the tunnel.  If they specialized in the strange and unusual, the people at this lab might be able to understand how special Clark was.  And if they were used to dealing with government secrets, surely they'd know how to keep Clark's.  

   Jonathan wasn't exactly happy, though, and he knew Martha would take some convincing.  But still, they had no choice.  All the could do was choose the facility best equipped to handle Clark's unusual abilities and hope for the best.

p

     The sky was blue, and all around the boy corn stalks reached far over his head, reaching for the sky.  He was walking forward, walking through those tall stalks…

   There was a scarecrow, a living, breathing scarecrow.  Tied up on its stake it looked down at him with a boy's face, gibbering, moaning…

   "Help me," it had said.  Then the sky had lit up with fire, and he turned and ran as fast as he could…

   But it wasn't fast enough.  A sea of blackness rushed up behind him, whirling within it corn, scarecrow, and finally the boy himself…the sea closed over his head, and everything went dark….

   With a shriek of terror the boy sat upright in bed.  He panted for a moment and felt around frantically for his asthma inhaler.  But he couldn't find it, and he realized with a start that although he was breathing fast he wasn't having an attack.  His chest didn't have that terrible, suffocating sensation of an asthma attack.

   A handful of white-coated figures rushed into the room.  They seemed almost as surprised to see him as he was to see them.

   The boy glanced around him quickly.  There was lots of equipment with blinking lights, and the bed he sat up in had metal rails on either side of it.  He glanced down and saw a piece of plastic tubing running down from a bottle of clear fluid into the back of his left hand.  He tugged at the piece of tape holding it in place.  There were funny little round pads stuck to his chest, too, with little wires in them.

   "Go and get Mrs. Luthor…she should be arriving just about now," one of the white-coated figures whispered to another.  He approached the bed.

   "Now, now, young man, don't pull out that IV.  You still need it.  How do you feel?"

   "Feel?  I feel…"  The boy wasn't sure how to respond.  For a moment he wanted to mention the scarecrow and the black tide and the terrible feeling he was about the die, but then he glanced up at the doctor's face and shut his lips tightly.  He hated doctors—they always wanted to stick him with needles and couldn't do anything for his asthma except give him more inhalers.  He had a whole drawer full of them at school.

   "Now, Alexander."  Once more the doctor tried to look friendly as the other ones whispered to each other.  "I'm your doctor; it's important you tell me how you feel."

   Lex sat up straighter.  "I feel fine."  He glared across the room.  "What are they whispering about?"

   "You've been a very sick little boy, Alexander.  Do you know where you are?"

   Rolling his eyes, the child shook his head at the stupidity of the question.  "I'm in a hospital."  He fixed the doctor with a stare.  "And you're not my doctor—my doctor is Dr. Prince and she's a lady."

   The doctor cleared his throat.  "I'm Dr. Samsara—I'm a specialist.  Your father had me come down from Central City to take care of you."

   "My father?"  Lex glanced around the room suspiciously.  "Where is my father?  I want him."

   "We've called him and he's on his way.  Now, if you'll just answer my questions…"

   Lex was not in the mood to humor this new doctor.  He felt tired and hungry and oddly cold even though there were blankets covering his legs.  The tape on his hand and on his chest itched and he hated that there were people in the room whispering.  He hated being left out of anything, because he so often was.

   He blatantly ignored all the questions, choosing instead to watch the machines by his bed.  He'd seen enough television to know that one of them must be his heartbeat, and another what was going on in his lungs, although he wasn't quite sure which was which.   If the doctor would ever shut up, he'd ask him…

   "Lex?  Lex!"

   The boy heard the joyful cry from the doorway and swung his head around.  His mother stood there, looking beautiful in a blue suit and the new fur coat his father had given her.  Tears were streaming down her face, and Lex felt something must be terribly wrong for her to cry like that.  He couldn't stand it when she cried.

   "Mom!"

   In a second she was next to his bed, kissing his face.  He was instantly enveloped in the warmth of her coat and the scent of her perfume.  Sometimes he thought he could spend hours just being near her like this—no one had a more beautiful mother than he did.  Of this Lex was certain.

   She took his face between her soft hands.  

   "Baby, I'm so glad you're awake!  I've been so scared!"  She glanced over at Dr. Samsara.  "Is he all right?"

   "He seems to be, but he hasn't been answering my questions," the doctor frowned.

   She turned her attention back to her son.

   "Alexander, Dr. Samsara helped you get well—you should be nice to him."

   Lex still didn't care what the doctor wanted, but since his mother asked him he was willing to oblige.  "O.k."

   She kissed him again.  "That's my good boy."  She pulled back, and he felt suddenly bereft.  It was easy to forget about the nightmare with his mother standing right there, but without her it all came back and he shivered.

   "Mom, I'm cold," he complained.

   His mother and the doctor exchanged a strange look, and Lex again had the feeling he was being left out of something important.  Impatiently he scratched his chin, which felt scabby and itchy, and then his right ear.  His hand froze.

   "Mom?"

   His mother had a terrible look on her face, like she was about to burst into tears again.  The doctor just looked away.

   Lex felt a wail building up in his chest as he carefully touched his scalp, all over, ear to ear and back again.  He wasn't exactly sure what he was feeling, but something was very wrong and the adults weren't talking.  As he sat there in their silence he got angrier and angrier until finally he let out the pent-up wail as a full-blown scream.

   "Mom?  Where's my hair?!"

/html


	8. ch8

html

     "No, Jonathan.  Absolutely not."

   Leaning against the tailgate of his father's old Ford, Jonathan shook his head at his wife.  

   "Martha, we agreed…"

   "No, Jonathan, you agreed."  Martha stabbed violently into the soil with her spade; she was covering the planting beds with a layer of mulch for winter.   "If you wanted to take him to some facility used to handling children, that would be one thing, but a lab?"

   She paused in her work to point at Clark, who was happily running in circles a few feet away.  

   "Does he look like he belongs in a lab to you?"

   Jonathan hardened his heart against the beguiling picture Clark made: running, laughing, his cheeks rosy red with cold in spite of a sweater.  There had been no more strange incidents around the house. Martha's scolding seemed to have convinced Clark such activities would not impress adults.  The child ate regularly, slept soundly, and otherwise seemed the picture of human health.  But Jonathan and Martha both knew better.

   "Martha, I spent hours searching, and S.T.A.R. labs really does sound like the best place.  They have a good reputation and they specialize in unusual things like this.  Did you read that article I brought home?"

   "Yes—and research on genetic mutations is all very well, but it doesn't mean anything when it comes to dealing with a little boy."  Martha set down her shovel.  "When they find out what he can do, how do you think they'll handle it?  How do we know they won't harm him?  Or worse?  Can we really take that chance?"

   "Martha, you know I care about Clark, and what happens to him, but…"

   "But what, Jonathan?"  His wife's eyes were luminous as she laid a hand on his arm.  "If you…if we both care about Clark, then he's better off here than in a lab where he'll never get a chance to have a normal life."

   Jonathan squeezed his wife's hand.  "We don't know what's normal for him, Martha.  And if there's any chance he could be a danger to other people…Think what would happen if the town found out he came with the meteors.  They might blame him for everything that's happened."

   "No one would blame a little boy."

   "You haven't spent much time in town, Martha, you don't know how angry folks are…"

   They both stopped talking as the sheriff's cruiser turned off the highway and into their drive. 

   "It's Earl Coulter," Martha said numbly.  "What do you think he wants?"

   "I don't know."  Jonathan stepped protectively in front of his wife anyway.  "Let me do the talking, Martha."

   The door to the vehicle swung open and Sheriff Coulter stepped out.  He pushed his hat back on his head and smiled.

   "Jonathan, Martha.  See you two are getting the place ready for winter."

   "There's a bite to the air, and with the frost this morning we didn't want to put it off any longer," Jonathan explained feebly.  He glanced over at where Clark was playing in pile of fallen leaves.

   "Sure enough.  November's come on fast and strong.  Thanksgiving'll be here before we know it" the sheriff nodded.  He followed Jonathan's glance.  "That the boy you found?"

   "Yes.  Clark, come here for a moment, please," Martha said softly.

   The child threw two last fistfuls of leaves in the air, and then hurried over to Martha's side.  He rested one hand on her denim-clad leg, but smiled at the stranger.  Clark was slowly getting used to being around people, although they still seemed to make him nervous.  Jonathan wondered if perhaps the boy could sense his and Martha's anxiety.

   "Clark, say 'hello' to Sheriff Coulter," Jonathan coached.

   Clark blushed, but after a second he smiled.  "Hi."

   "Hello back there, young fellow," the sheriff smiled.   "Fine lookin' boy," he confided to Martha.  

     She only nodded as she combed small fragments of leaves out of the child's hair with her fingers as he stared curiously at the newcomer.

   "You all getting along all right?"

   "Right as rain," Jonathan said.

   "Just fine," Martha seconded.  She pulled Clark closer to her side when it seemed the boy might make a break for the shiny black and white squad car.  Clark loved anything with wheels—from the old pickup to the tractor. 

   "Well, I wanted to tell you both we've still haven't had any luck tracking down his family."  Earl scratched his considerable belly.  "Darndest thing—you'd think someone would have missed him by now."

   "You'd think that," Jonathan echoed.

   "Anyway, the folks over at social services want to see all three of you, to decide what to do.  Oh, don't worry," the sheriff added hastily when he saw the expression on his friends' faces.  "I don't think keeping the boy will be much of a problem, if that's what the two of you want.  Both Doc McIntyre and I've put in a good word for you, and you've already talked with the county about adopting, right?"

   Jonathan nodded.  "A few months ago."  At that time the social worker had told them they were excellent prospects for adopting a child, but that few infants became available nowadays.  He and Martha had expressed their willingness to take an older child, or even a foster child…He glanced over at Clark again.  In a way they had ended up doing both, but this child had come from much further away than the county seat.

   Earl scribbled on his notepad and handed a piece of paper to Jonathan.  "Here's the number for social services—they'd like to see the three of you sometime next week, if possible."

   The Kents exchanged a glance.

   "Um, we'll do our best," Jonathan said.

   "I'm sure you will."  The sheriff smiled at Clark one last time.  "Pleasure meeting you, Clark."  Then his smile faded.  "Martha, would you mind if Jonathan and I had a word in private?"

   Martha glanced nervously at her husband, but tried to smile.  "No, of course not.  Clark and I should be feeding the chickens their evening meal about now, anyway.  He loves to feed the chickens."  She took the child's small hand in her own, and led him off towards the barn.

   Jonathan sighed, but it was Earl who put his thoughts into words.

   "Martha's real attached to that boy, ain't she?"

   Since the sheriff was not known for being a particularly perceptive man, Jonathan had to smile.

   "That she is."

   "Well, I'm sure it will all work out for the best," the other man nodded.  "Nice to know some good can come of all this mess."

   Jonathan frowned.  "What is it, Sheriff?"

   "Jonathan, I know you and Fordman and Travers all spoke out against Lionel Luthor coming here.  And I gotta say, at the time I thought you were all a bit cracked."

   "You and everyone else in town."

   The two men leaned against the fence.

   "But I gotta say that now I think you all were right."

   Alarmed at the defeated tone in his friend's voice, Jonathan turned to face him.

   "What's happened, Earl?"

   The sheriff stared out over the fields; the green grass of the pasture was just beginning to turn brown at the edges.  "Few days ago some men came and stripped off some of the equipment from the creamed corn factory.  Mark Ross said they had the paperwork to prove it was LuthorCorp that gave the order."  
   "Damn." Jonathan's hands tightened into fists.

   "Of course, there might have been a reasonable explanation for that, but yesterday they came back and took the canning equipment.  And then this morning everyone got a pink slip from some yuppie in a suit as soon as they walked through the door.  Mark, too."

   Jonathan closed his eyes for a long moment.  This was exactly what he had feared, and yet he hadn't expected it to happen so fast…

   "How's Joe taking it?"

   Earl shook his grizzled head.  "He's in shock.  He and his boy Dale have been on the phone with lawyers in Metropolis all week.  Luthor won't even talk to them directly, but his lawyers say there was nothing in the contract to prevent LuthorCorp from stripping off the Ross holdings now they're his."

   "Sneaky bastard.  He couldn't sell the plant on, so he's selling it bit by bit."  

     Jonathan shook his head.  His father, schooled in the lessons of the Great Depression, had taught his son to always have a healthy distrust of businessmen and their promises.  Growing up in Smallville, Jonathan had learned to judge every man by his actions, not his words.  And Lionel Luthor's actions had show the man to be a liar and a cheat.  Oh, maybe he was within his rights under the law, but as far as Jonathan was concerned that only made his actions more despicable.

   "Some friend of Smallville," he growled.  "Talk about hitting us when we're down."

   "Tell me about it.  More than a hundred people out of work with the foundry closed down, not to mention all the small businesses that can't reopen until the government comes through with disaster relief money."

   "And Joe employed, what, five hundred people?"

   "More at harvest time," Earl sighed.  "It's a sorry day for this town, Jonathan.  Folks are saying Lionel Luthor coming here has been a bigger disaster than the meteors."  

   "And about as heartless."  

     Jonathan couldn't believe anyone could be so unfeeling.  He knew nothing about the world of big business, but he imagined that to LuthorCorp people were all just cogs in a giant wheel, to be used and then disposed of—after all, there would always been another cog to take your place.  

   "Just goes to show how far you can trust a Luthor," he grumbled.

   "Amen to that," the sheriff nodded.  "Your family's always been a good friend to this town, Jonathan, and I felt obliged to let you know where things stand."

   The younger man nodded.  "I appreciate it, Earl.  I'll go over and see Joe Ross tomorrow, see if there's anything I can do to help."

   "Doubt there is.  But I'm sure he'd like to see you."  

   Jonathan and Earl walked back to the sheriff's car in subdued silence.  As he opened the door, however, Earl glanced at him from under shaggy eyebrows.

   "And Jonathan?"

   "Yeah?"

   "No one's faulting you and Fordman for being right about Luthor.  We all just wish we'd listened when we'd had a chance."

   "There's no point in spreading blame around now, Earl.  What's done is done."

   Jonathan watched the sheriff slide behind the wheel and waved as the squad car pulled away from the house.  As he headed back to the barn to talk to Martha he shook his head.

   So no one was faulting him for being right, huh?  Like all men, he had his pride, but he would have been willing, happy, even, to be proven wrong in this case.  It made him sick to his stomach to think of the havoc Lionel Luthor would wreak on the town if he and his company stuck around.  

   Ever since the meteor shower things in Smallville seemed to be spinning out of control.  Lives and loved ones lost; property damaged; and now the two major employers in town folding within a week of each other.  It was almost more than anyone could bear.

   And Clark was the one bright spot in all the darkness.  And they couldn't keep him.

   Jonathan pushed all of his feelings down into the pit of his stomach and went to tell his wife the latest news.

p

     "So what do the lawyers say?  If they've given us the green light then demolition should begin next week as planned.  We've got a schedule."

   The elevator doors opened and Lionel Luthor stepped out in the hallway of Metropolis General.  Even at the opposite end of the hall from his son's room he could hear the boy carrying on.  He cringed inwardly.

   "No, I want the crew out there Monday morning.  If the Ross' regret the sale there's nothing they can do about it now.  Public relations?  LuthorCorp will be employing five times as many people as the Ross' did, so don't tell me about public relations.  You handle the Ross' and leave the rest to me."

   Lionel impatiently hit the disconnect button on his cell phone and tucked it back into his cashmere coat.  As if he didn't have enough troubles at the moment, Joe Ross had apparently gotten cold feet about the deal when he'd discovered LuthorCorp intended to strip and sell off the creamed corn factory, not run it.

   He nearly laughed.  As if LuthorCorp would have any interest in creamed corn.  No, it  was the land that interested him, and Smallville's location, only three hours from Metropolis.  The papers were signed and the deal would go forward just as he'd planned.  Lionel had learned early on that with the force of his considerable will behind it, anything was possible.

   The one exception to that rule, unfortunately, was the boy sitting up in bed and yelling at the top of his lungs.  It looked as if the doctors had decided to draw blood for more tests, and his son was not cooperating.

   "Lex?  Stop that caterwauling this instant."

   The boy stopped in mid scream and stared at the doorway where his father stood.

   "You know better than to carry on like that."

   Lex ducked his head, and Lionel was appalled to see the child seemed even balder then before.  Every last trace of hair was gone, although his eyebrows and lashes remained.

   Lionel shuddered.

   Dr. Samsara looked at him apologetically as he crossed the room.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Luthor, but I wanted to run a few more tests.  Alexander is usually quite cooperative when your wife is here…"

   "My wife is nursing a migraine thanks to all his 'cooperation,'" Lionel corrected.  "She'll be here shortly.  But Lex knows I will not tolerate the way he's behaving.  Don't you, Lex?"

   The boy only tucked his head closer to his chest.  Lionel shook his head.  All his training, and the boy still didn't have the nerve to stand up to him.  Where had he gone wrong?

   "It hurts, Father," the boy only mumbled.

   "Of course it hurts—they're needles.  But the doctors need blood samples if they're going to help you."

   Lionel crooked a finger at the doctor, and the two of them stepped just outside the doorway.

   "Is there any point to this, doctor?  The boy seems well enough."

   "His white cell count is still a little high, and we'd like to get to the bottom of it before we let him go home."

   "Very well.  But this is the last round of tests, Dr. Samsara.  I see no point in keeping Lex here when you've already said you can't improve his condition."

   "The hair, you mean?"  The doctor frowned.  "As I told your wife, hair loss during times of extreme duress is not uncommon, although it usually isn't so complete as in your son's case…"

   "But there's no sign of regrowth, correct?  Even after two weeks."

   "No, I'm afraid there isn't."

   Luthor nodded.  "The last round of tests, doctor."

   As Samsara scurried down the hall with his blood sample Lionel turned his attention back to his son.  True, the child looked fit enough in a normal pair of pajamas, and Lionel could see he had stacks of books by his bed.  No doubt Pamela had disobeyed his orders, as usual.  Lionel hated illness, and he feared between the doctor's ministrations and the suffocation of his mother and his nanny, Lex would soon grow too used to his invalidism.  Still, his wife had begged him not to upset the child, so Lionel's let the issue of the books go for the time being.

   "How do you feel, Lex?"

   The boy looked at him warily.  "Fine, sir."

   "You look better.  Your color is better."

   There was an awkward silence.  

   "Dr. Samsara says my hair might still grow back," Lex offered.  "Maybe before I have to go back to school."

   "You'll go back to school as soon as the doctor says you're well enough, Lex, hair or no hair.  You cannot neglect your education for vanity."

   The boy's head ducked down again, but not before Lionel saw a flash of anger in his green eyes.

   "What?  Speak up, Lex, if you have something to say."

   Lex's bottom lip protruded dangerously.  Lily did the same thing just before she started to cry.

   "They'll make fun of me."

   "And what if they do?  You are strong enough to endure teasing, Lex, and a great deal more, if need be.  You're a Luthor, never forget that."

   The child only nodded, but Lionel could see he wasn't taking his words to heart.  

   "It's for your own good, Lex."  Lionel tried to gentle his voice.  "When you're older you'll understand."

   "Yes, sir," the boy said in a muffled voice. 

   "Lionel, you're here early."  

   He turned around; his wife stood in the doorway, looking lovely in a pale green suit he'd ordered from Paris.  Lionel could see the strain around her eyes, however, and frowned.

   "Lily, if you're not feeling well you should stay home."

   "Nonsense."  She came to stand by Lex's bed and kissed the boy.  "I wanted to check on my baby.  How do you feel, sweetheart?"

   "They stuck me with needles, Mom."  Clearly the boy had no problem complaining when his mother was around.  "Father said they have to."

   "To help you get well, Alexander.  Now, why don't you lie back down, and get some rest.  I'll stay with you, I promise."

   Lionel stepped out of the way while Lily tucked their son in the bed.  He waited until the child's eyes were closed before he gestured to his wife.

   "Lily, I'd like to speak to you, if I may."

   "All right, but just in the hall; I promised Alexander I'd stay close by."

   When they were both standing by the door, Lionel frowned.  

   "You coddle the boy too much, Lillian.  The way you and Pamela dote on him he'll never want to get out of bed."

   Lily waved a slender hand in the air.  "He's been ill, Lionel.  Why shouldn't he have all my attention, until he gets better?"

   "He is better, Lily, ever Dr. Samsara says so.  You need to be careful of your own health as well."

   Lily smiled.  "I feel fine, Lionel.  It's just a little headache, and I rested all morning."    

   Her chin rose.  "And how can you say he's better?  His white blood cell count is still high, and his hair…"

   "Is still gone.  And likely it will remain gone for the rest of his life."  Lionel leveled his gaze at his wife.  "I've told the doctor there are to be no more tests after this last set, Lily."  

   "What?  You should have consulted me!"  Her eyes began to tear.  "I'm his mother, Lionel."

   "And I'm his father.  I see no use in prolonging this charade.  The child needs to get on with his life."

   Lily laid a pleading hand on his arm.

   "Please, Lionel, they might still be able to help him.  He can't go through life looking like that.  It will make things so hard…"

   "No, Lily.  Lex will just have to accept what's happened and move forward.  I won't let you and the doctors chase after a cure that doesn't exist."

   Lily started to cry, and although Lionel put his arm around her he refused to be moved.  

   "The sooner you accept it the sooner Lex will," he explained.  "He's never going to look like he did before.  He will always look…different from other people."

   Lionel patted his wife's back gently, letting her cry.  He knew once Lily got it out of her system she's accept his judgment, as she always did.

   Glancing over at the bed, Lionel could see Lex regarding him with a steady, glassy-eyed stare.  Clearly the child had heard every word they'd said.

   But he felt no inclination to apologize or soften his words.  He'd spoken only the truth.

/html      


	9. ch9

html

     "Pop, I haven't got any good news for you."  Sitting at his kitchen table, Dale Ross frowned.  "I faxed copies of the contract to everyone I could think of, and everyone agrees there's nothing we can do."

   Joe frowned back.  "But the contract specifically says Luthor can't sell the plant on.  I made sure of that."

   His daughter-in-law leaned forward and patted his hand.  "We know you did, Dad.  But there are always loopholes in this kind of thing, and apparently Luthor found one.  Technically he's not breaking your deal, because he's selling the plant in bits and pieces."

   The old man rested his head in his hands.

   "I'm sorry.  I should have listened to you, Dale."

   "You couldn't have known what he would do," his son said softly.  "None of us could.  On paper the deal looks fair and square.  Luthor and his lawyers are just slippery enough to get around that."

   "But you warned me.  Ed Fordman and Jonathan Kent warned me.  And I didn't listen."  Joe sighed heavily.  "And now look what I've done."

   "Don't you blame yourself, Dad," Kate scolded.  "This is LuthorCorp's doing, and not yours.  Everyone knows that."

   "Five hundred people out of work, a week before Thanksgiving."  Joe Ross had always prided himself on being a strong man, but at the thought of what was happening his eyes began to fill with tears.  "Thank God your mother isn't here to see what a fool I've been."

   Kate hastily got up to refill everyone's mugs with coffee, allowing her husband and his father a quiet moment.  She could hear Dale whispering softly to Joe.  Standing at her kitchen window, she could see the backyard where her youngest child played on the swing set.  She was relieved her other four were at school.  She wasn't sure how to explain what was happening to their family.  At least Peter was too young to really understand his grandfather's grief.

   When Dale had insisted on coming back to Smallville after law school, Kate really hadn't understood what tied him to the small community.  But after years of watching his family work to keep the factory going, after bearing and raising all of her children here, she had finally begun to understand the strong emotional bond the Ross' felt with the town.  Neither Joe, his sons, or even his grandsons had ever been much for expressing their feelings.  Ross men tended to bury their problems behind a wall of jokes rather than dealing with things head on, but now there was nothing any of them could do to lighten Joe's burden.

   "And it's not just the workers I've hurt."  Joe shook his head.  "The two of you, and Mark and his wife, had money tied up in the plant.  If there's no plant, there's no profit sharing, and you'll never get your money back.  This deal was supposed to secure the future for my grandkids, and instead I've left our family worse off than before."

   "We'll manage, Pop.  We always have before."

   "We've both got a few cases we're working on," Kate added.

   "No, you both shouldn't have to work so hard.  You should be able to take time to enjoy your kids while they're young."  Joe rubbed a hand across his face.

   "It's like you and Granddad have always said.  The Ross' carry on, no matter what."  Dale tried to inject some levity into his voice.  "We'll just keep on carrying on."

   Kate nodded.  "Joe, you can't keep beating yourself up over this.  You look so tired."

   "I am tired, Katie.  More tired than I've ever been before."

   She took her father-in-law's hand in one of hers.  Dale took the other.

   "Dad, none of this is going to change how people feel.  Folks know you didn't mean for this to happen.  They know you've always done right by the town.  Jonathan Kent said the same thing when he dropped by the other day."

   "And I couldn't even face him," Joe said sadly.  "I don't know if I can face anyone any more.  The hick who got taken by Lionel Luthor.  That's me."

   "Pop, I won't hear you talking like that.  We may not be able to fight LuthorCorp in court, but I'll be damned if I'll let him shame my father and my family out of town."  Dale sat up straighter.  "People won't forget what he did.  Luthor may have gotten the factory, but there's no way he'll ever win over the town now."

   The phone rang, and while Kate jumped up to get it Joe shook his head at his son.

   "I want to believe you, Dale."

   His boy smiled his old crooked, cocky grin.  "Then believe me, Pop."

   "Dale?"  Kate held the phone out to her husband.  "It's Mark, calling from Metropolis—he things he may have found a job."

   Dale clapped his dad on the back.  

   "See, what did I tell you?  Things are looking up already!"

   While Kate and Dale spoke to Mark, Joe pushed aside his mug and stood up.  He walked slowly over to the back door.

   Rubbing his back he smiled ruefully as he opened the screen door.  He felt like he'd aged twenty years since the meteor shower.  His back hurt, his legs hurt…and his chest hurt at the thought Mark and his family might have to move away if Mark got a job in Metropolis.  He and Tess had worked so hard to keep their family together, and close to Smallville…

   "Face it, Ross—you're an old man," Joe told himself.  "Obsolete."

   "Who ya talkin' to, Grandpa?"  His youngest grandchild piped from his seat on a swing.

   "Oh, your old granddad's just talking to himself, Petey."  He smiled at the boy.  "Havin' fun?"

   "Uh huh."  The little boy frowned.  "How come you been inside all day?  You're s'posed to push me on the swing."

   Joe's grin widened.  "Am I, now?  Is that the rule in the Ross house?"

   "Uh huh."

   Joe forgot about his aches and obliged Peter by standing behind him and giving him a small push.     

   "Better?"

   "Yep.  Keep going, please."

   Joe chuckled.  Little Peter was by far the greatest charmer of the Ross grandchildren.  Probably because he was the littlest, lost in a sea of brothers and sisters, he'd learned a smile and a hug could bring him just about anything he wanted.  

   "Grandpa?"

   "Yes, Petey?"

   "Dad says we can't go see the factory no more."

   "'Anymore,' Peter.  And no, we can't."

   The child frowned again.  "Kathy says the man who bought it is bad."

   Joe slowed the progress of the swing for a moment.  "Well, now, Peter.  You tell your sister not to go spreading tales.  That isn't very nice."

   Chastened, Peter ducked his small head.  "'Kay."

   Joe shook his head and stepped back.

   "Peter, come here for a moment."

   With an expression of curiosity Peter jumped off the swing and stood in front of his grandfather.  The old man laid a hand on his shoulder.

   "Now, listen to what I'm telling you, son.  No one is bad, not really.  Sometimes people do bad things, that's true.  The man who bought the factory is like that.  But that doesn't mean he has a bad heart."

   Clearly puzzled, the boy looked up at him with wide eyes.

   "But if the man's good, why did he make you an' Dad an' Uncle Mark so mad?"

   Sighing, Joe shook his head.

   "I don't really know, Pete.  But the man who bought the plant has a wife, and a little boy, like you, so there must be some good in him somewhere."  Joe wasn't sure if he was speaking to his grandson or to himself now.  "It's just a bit harder to find in some people."  He ruffled his grandson's hair.  "And I reckon' we'll all stop being mad eventually, so I don't watch you fretting, ok?"

   ""Kay."  Peter took his grandfather's hand.  "Will you make me some hot chocolate now?  I want some."

   "Well, now, we'd better ask your mama first," Joe chuckled.  "But if she says it's all right I will.  You know, your Grandma, God rest her soul, made the best hot chocolate, and she taught me how."

   Joe released the boy's hand so the child could hop up the back stairs.  As he moved to follow a wave of dizziness swept over him.  He reached out and steadied himself against a porch rail.

   Peter had paused and was regarding him with confusion.

   "What's wrong, Grandpa?  You look funny."

   The dizziness seemed to be growing worse, and Joe's vision suddenly doubled.  It was difficult to breathe.

   "I…I…"

   "Grandpa?"

   Although he couldn't see the boy clearly, Joe could hear the fear in his voice.  He struggled to clear his mind against the crushing pain in his chest.

   "Petey, go get your dad.  Quick now, that's my boy."

   Suddenly the world spun around him, and Joe could no longer maintain his balance.  He felt heavily to the porch floor, but somehow couldn't feel the wood under him.  All he could feel was the terrible pain, as if the life were being squeezed out of him.  He could see only darkness, but he heard, very dimly, his smart young grandson scramble up the stairs and throw open the screen door.

   "Dad, Mom, come quick!  Something's wrong with Grandpa!"

p

   "That should be everything."  Martha set the small suitcase down at the foot of the stairs.  

   "Did you remember to pack the toy truck?  He'll want that," Jonathan said numbly.

   "Of course I did."  

   Martha wouldn't look him in the eyes.

   "Are you sure we're doing the right thing, Jonathan?"

   "No, honey, I'm not.  But it's the only thing I can think to do."  Gently Jonathan put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

   "Martha, please.  I know this hurts you but it will be better for Clark, in the long run, to be some place with people who can cope with him.  You and I couldn't handle him now if he decided to pitch a fit. What would happen when he's a teenager?"  Jonathan tried to grin, but it didn't seem to come out right.

   Martha nodded, and rubbed her arms as if she were cold.

   "I understand what you're saying, Jonathan, and my mind agrees with you."

   "But your heart feels differently."

   Tears started to stream down his wife's face.  "Oh, Jonathan…"

   He put his arms around her and held her tight.

   "Martha, you've got the kindest, most generous heart I've ever seen.  That's why I fell in love with you."  

   She sniffed loudly and hastily ran her hands across her eyes.

   "It was only natural that you'd love Clark.  But he was never meant to be ours."

   "I don't want him to know I've been crying.  It will just upset him."

   Jonathan nodded and picked up the suitcase.  Martha had carefully packed Clark's clothes, books, and handful of toys into it, and it still felt too light.  Clark had seemed so much a part of the house in the last weeks it seemed impossible that Jonathan held all he owned in the world in one little bag.

   "Jonathan, I can't go into Metropolis with you.  I just can't, I'm sorry."  Martha shook her head vehemently.

   "I understand, Martha.  You can say goodbye to him here."

   They went out on to the front porch.  Clark was sitting under the oak tree, building a tiny house out of sticks.  Martha had bundled him up against the cold northerly wind.  In his heavy red coat and with his hair standing up in the breeze he looked like a small, black-haired rooster.

   "Come on, Clark, we need to go now."  Jonathan held out his hand.

   The child hopped to his feet.  Clark loved riding in the truck more than anything else, and seemed to sense whenever Jonathan had car keys in his hand.  He looked up at Jonathan expectantly.

   Jonathan hastily cleared his throat and went around to the tailgate, placing the forlorn little suitcase in the back.

   Martha knelt down and smoothed the child's hair.

   "Now, Clark. I want you to listen to me.  You be a good boy, and do what Jonathan tells you, all right?"

   The child nodded.

   She wrapped him in her arms and held him tightly.

   "I'm never going to forget you, Clark.  Don't you ever forget me."

   So far Martha had been able to control her tears, but she squeezed Clark one last time and stood hastily.

   "You'd better take him, Jonathan," she said shakily.  "I can't…I don't…"

   "I know, baby."  Jonathan went back around the truck and took the child's hand.  He led him over to the open passenger door and helped him climb in.  He checked to make sure the seat belt was buckled tightly across Clark's lap.  Then he went around to the driver's side where his wife stood.

   "It's three hours to Metropolis, and three hours back…I don't expect I'll be home until late tonight."

   Taking a shuddery breath, his wife nodded.

   Jonathan touched her face one last time and climbed behind the wheel.  When he started the engine Clark clapped his small hands with glee.  Jonathan threw the truck into reverse but Martha hastily laid her hand across the open window.

   "Jonathan, make sure they're good people.  Make sure they understand how special Clark is."

   He nodded, his lips set in a tight line.

   "I will, Martha.  I promise."

   He backed the truck out of the driveway before he would have to see his wife dissolve in tears.

   "You're doing the right thing, Kent," he told himself.  "You're doing the right thing."

   As they turned out onto the highway Clark glanced back over his shoulder at the farmhouse.  He shot Jonathan a curious look, as if wondering why Martha wasn't coming with them.  Jonathan didn't have the heart to explain, and Clark soon settled down to contemplate the hum of the engine and the sound of the tires against the pavement.

   They passed through downtown on the way to the interstate.  Jonathan could see that most of the boarded-up windows sported new glass.  The Talon, Nell's florist shop, and Fordman's Sporting Goods were all open for business.  For the first time in weeks no news trucks were parked on Main Street.  No doubt they'd found a new tragedy to exploit somewhere else.  There was still a gaping hole on the block where the old Savings and Loan had stood, but most of the rubble had been cleared away.

   Although he wouldn't have thought it possible before, Jonathan could now imagine a time when a visitor might be able to look at Smallville and not know the meteors had hit.  But of course they would only see with their eyes.  The residents would always remember what had happened, whether the scars were visible or not.

   As he turned left onto the interstate, Jonathan glanced over at Clark.  The child seemed blissfully unaware, humming along with the engine.

   What might have happened if Clark hadn't arrived with the meteors?  If he'd arrived some other way, would things be any easier?  Jonathan contemplated this as they drove in silence.

   If Clark had been a human child, found out in a cornfield, Jonathan would have still done everything possible to do right by him.  He would have tried to find his family, would have taken care of him the best way he knew how.  

   But if Clark had been human, and without a family, Jonathan wouldn't have hesitated about keeping him.  Then he wouldn't have been breaking Martha's heart, and his own, by giving him up.

   But Clark wasn't human.  Clark was…Clark.

   "I can't help but wonder if maybe you do have a family somewhere, Clark," he said aloud.

   Clark blinked at him with wide green eyes.

   "Do you have folks out there?  Or up there?  Did they mean to send you here, or was it all just an accident?  Will your folks come looking for you some day?"

   Clearly not in a philosophical mood, Clark turned his attention to fiddling with the radio dials.  Jonathan's heart was too heavy to stop him.

   They only stopped once during the trip, at a gas station where the man behind the counter gave Clark a grape lollipop while Jonathan filled the truck.

   "Nice boy you got there," the attendant said.  "You must be real proud."

   Jonathan didn't respond.

   When the skyline of Metropolis came into view, Clark sat up higher and pointed.

   "Wha' that?"

   "That's a city, Clark.  Biggest one in the Midwest."

   The child's eyes shone like the glass and steel skyscrapers.

   "Pretty."

   Jonathan would never have thought a crowded, dirty place like Metropolis could be pretty, but now, seeing it through Clark's eyes, he had to admit it did look kind of pretty.  From a distance, anyway.

   S.T.A.R. Labs was on the west side of town, and as they drove through downtown Clark watched in awe as people bustled all around them.  It was noon, so all the corporate drones were on their lunch breaks.  Jonathan wondered idly which building housed LuthorCorp, and what the penalty would be if he threw a brick through one of their windows.  

     The street passed though a large park.  Clark pointed to some kids fishing off a bridge into the Metropolis River below.

   "They're fishing, Clark.  Well, not really.  The only thing they'll catch in there in tires.  Real fishing is done in a lake or a stream."

   Jonathan thought of his fishing gear, up in the attic at home.  He still had his father's old rod and tackle.  He didn't know why he'd been saving them.  Why had he saved all of his father's things, even leaving his room untouched all these years?

   Maybe he hadn't been ready to let go of Hyrum.  Not until Clark came.

   S.T.A.R. Laboratories occupied a large, squat building in an industrial section of town.  Jonathan supposed that it didn't matter much to scientists where they worked, but it sure looked like a gloomy place to him.  He parked at the curb and stared at the glass front doors.  Only discreet lettered announced they were in the right place.  There weren't even any windows.

   Clark frowned.  "Fish?" he asked.

   "No, Clark.  No fishing here."

   His research had convinced him this was the place best able to handle Clark's unusual needs.  But sitting there Jonathan felt protest boiling up in his stomach.  In his mind he'd pictured a place surrounded by grass and trees, maybe like the Metropolis University campus on the east side of town.  Someplace suitable for a child, where he'd have plenty of fresh air.  This place looked like a fortress.  Which, he realized, given what S.T.A.R. worked on it might need to be.

   "Well, we're here, anyway."  Jonathan undid his seat belt and hopped out of the truck.  He helped Clark down, and then on a whim picked him up and set him in the crook of his arm as he had on that first day.  Clark definitely felt heavier.  Martha's cooking had obviously done him some good.

   "We came all this way," Jonathan said idly.  "We should at least check it out."

   Clark only studied the building in silence.  Jonathan again wondered what went on behind those green eyes.

   "We'll check it out, and if it doesn't feel right we'll come up with another plan.  Right?"

   Clark nodded vigorously, obviously not understanding a word Jonathan said. 

   So they'd go in, and Jonathan would tell them…what, exactly?  The whole scenario had seemed so simple when he'd laid it out for Martha.  He would explain the circumstances under which they'd found Clark, and ask the scientists what to do next.

   Simple.  Only they'd probably think he was nuts.

   Or they wouldn't.  And they'd take Clark.

   In the back of his mind Jonathan had always entertained the hope that he and Martha would be able to keep in touch with the boy.  To see how he grew, how he changed, to know that after all their agonizing they'd done the right thing by giving him up.

   If he took Clark into that fortress, that wouldn't happen.  They'd never see him again.  Standing on the sidewalk Jonathan was as certain of that as he'd even been of anything in his life.

   He'd always prided himself on his honesty, but the truth was he'd been lying to himself.  And what was worse, lying to Martha.

   He wasn't ready to let go of Clark, any more than his wife was.  At least not yet.  Maybe when Clark was older, bigger, better able to fend for himself…Maybe then he would bring the child back here.  

   But not now.  Not today.

   He held the boy tightly against his jacket.

   "C'mon, Clark.  I changed my mind.  You don't need to be here right now.  Let's go home to Martha."

/html  


	10. ch10

html

     Martha pulled the last of the pies out of the oven with a smile of satisfaction.  The pumpkins Josie McIntyre had given her had been reduced to a smooth, orange puree, and now filled half a dozen homemade piecrusts.  

   "Wow.  They smell good, don't they, Clark?"

   From his spot on the floor, where he was coloring, Clark nodded.

   "If my mom could see me now," Martha laughed.  "No more pies from the freezer section for me.  These are 100% natural."  She regarded her handiwork.  "Two for us, one for the McIntyres, and three left over.  We'll have to find good homes for them, just like we did for you," she smiled.

   She had found a Thanksgiving-themed coloring book during her last frantic pre-holiday trip to the store, and Clark was almost as enchanted with it as he was with his toy truck.  Fortunately it had helped keep the child busy while she finished last minute preparations.  Now the pies were done, the turkey was thawed, and all she would have to do tomorrow morning would be put the turkey in the oven and fix the stuffing.

   "I think I'm getting this cooking thing down, Clark, I really do."

   She scooped the little boy off the floor and into her arms, planting a kiss on his cheek.  Clark laughed.  As she sat them both in a chair Martha wondered if the child had any idea how close he had come to being given away.  

     She and Jonathan had let fear get the better of them. Martha knew that now.  Thank god Jonathan had come to his senses in time.  When Hyrum's old Ford had reappeared in the driveway and Jonathan had helped Clark out of the seat Martha had sat down on the kitchen floor and wept with joy.

   She snuggled the child's head under her chin.  Clark smelled wonderful, a combination of soap and little boy.  She pulled the wallpaper sample books back over to him.

   "Well, where were we?  Oh, I know, we were looking at wallpaper borders for your bedroom.  Look, here's one with dinosaurs.  Do you like that one?"

   Clark shook his head and thumbed through the pages carefully.  

   The morning after Jonathan had brought Clark home to stay she'd found her husband carrying boxes of things out of her father-in-law's old room.

   He'd shrugged self-effacingly.

   "Been meaning to clean it out for a while," he admitted sheepishly.  "I just never got around to it, but Clark needs his own room.  I figure I'll save Dad's books and fishing rod for when Clark gets older, and the rest can go to charity."

   Too happy to speak, Martha had only nodded.  She understood what Jonathan couldn't say out loud--Clark's coming had once again completed their family.  Jonathan could let go of his father now.

   "Twucks!"  Clark cried happily.  Martha could see the child had indeed found a border featuring a variety of different vehicles.

   "OK, Clark, trucks it is," she chuckled.  "That will look very nice with the blue walls."   

   Judging from Clark's most frequently used crayons the boy's favorite colors were blue and red.  But Martha drew the line at letting her son having a red room.

   Her son.  She squeezed him again.

   "My son," she repeated.

   Clark squirmed a bit and she let him climb down from her lap.  He ran to the screen door and pointed.

   "Mama, look!  Daddy!"

   Martha hadn't heard anyone approach, but as she watched a new black truck turned into the driveway.  Clark had an uncanny way of doing that--she sometimes wondered if he had more sensitive hearing then they did.

   "Yes, sweetheart, Daddy's home.  You can go see him."

   Clark pushed open the screen door and hurried down the porch stairs.  He started in awe at the new vehicle.

   Jonathan jumped down from the driver's seat and grinned.

   "Well, Clark, what do you think?  Better than the old Ford, huh?"

   When the check from the insurance company had finally arrived, Jonathan had once again retired his father's truck to the barn, to be used only for chores.  Ed Fordman had picked him up early that morning to take him into Lowell, where all the car dealerships were located.

   "It's nice, honey," his wife said approvingly.

   "Yep.  Bigger than the old one and only a few thousand miles on it to boot," Jonathan smiled.

   "New twuck, new twuck!"  Clark began to dance happily around the yard.

   Martha rolled her eyes.  "You men and your trucks.  You were gone longer than I thought, so Clark and I have already eaten.  And wait 'til you see the pies I made for tomorrow!" Her expression darkened for a brief moment, like a cloud passing in front of the sun.  "I thought I'd give the extra ones to Nell, and to the Ross'.  With Joe still in the hospital I don't think Kate's had any time for baking."

   Jonathan nodded, thinking how frail Joe Ross had looked when they'd visited him.  His heart attack would probably prevent Joe from ever going back to work, or from being as active as he'd once been.  The Ross family and most of the town blamed Lionel Luthor, and Jonathan couldn't disagree.

    "I grabbed a bite Lowell, Martha.  I swung by the college library again."

   He reached back into the cab and pulled out a stack of books.

   "What's all this?"

   Jonathan held them out to her.

   "Language books.  You know, Egyptian, Greek, other stuff.  I thought I might take a look through them and see if I can find anything that looks like what's on that piece of metal."

   The piece of metal they had found with the craft was now wrapped in soft rags and safely stowed away in the attic.  Martha had insisted they be careful with it, since it was the best evidence, other than the spaceship itself, of where Clark had come from.

   Now, however, Martha laughed.

   "Clark's not Egyptian, honey."

   "I know that, but I figured if they wrote in pictures, and Clark's folk's wrote in pictures, maybe we can make some sense out of it.  He'll want to know where he comes from, Martha, and I'd like to be able to tell him more than that he fell out of the sky."

   "We're not linguists, but I guess it's worth a shot," Martha nodded.   She looked at their son and laughed.

   "Look at him, Jonathan."

   Clark was blissfully poking and prodding the tires and the fender on the new truck.

   "Be careful, Clark," Jonathan reminded.  "Touch gentle, like we said."  The previous evening Clark had managed to put a dent in the refrigerator door just by closing it too hard.  This time, however, Jonathan and Martha had put aside their alarm and explained to the child he just needed to be more careful.

   "Gentle," Clark repeated absently as he examined the empty license plate holder.

   "I don't think our car insurance covers damage by toddler," Jonathan laughed.

   Martha was happy to see him laugh about Clark's unusual abilities.  He'd made a lot of progress in the last week.

   "I'm not sure any insurance would cover what Clark's capable of doing, Jonathan.  He's a smart boy, and we'll teach him to be careful.  He may put a few dents in things in the meantime, but…"

   Jonathan's smiled faded.  

   "We still don't know exactly what he can do, Martha, or if his abilities will change as he gets older.  And he needs to learn right away not to use them in front of other people.  We can't take the chance of someone else finding out where he came from."  Jonathan thought of the prison-like S.T.A.R. Labs building, and shuddered.  He couldn't believe now he'd actually contemplated leaving Clark there.

   His wife put her arm around his waist.

   "We'll teach him, Jonathan."

   "It's going to take a lot of patience to raise Clark right.  A lot more patience than another child would take."

   "But we didn't get another child," Martha reminded.  "We got this one."  She rested her head against his shoulder.

   "And I think we're up to the challenge."

FIN

/html


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